


Clowns to the left of me, Jokers to the right.

by Havokftw



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gang World, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Mob, Bank Robbery, Big Gay Mobsters, Crimes & Criminals, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, First Meetings, First Time, Heist, Hostage Situations, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kidnapping, M/M, One Night Stands, Organized Crime, Past Abuse, Rough Sex, Sexual Repression, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 17:44:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 99,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14699175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Havokftw/pseuds/Havokftw
Summary: The heist fails spectacularly, but it's not Jeonghan's poor planning.It all starts when Wonwoo picks up a stranger at a bar.





	1. Well I don't know why I came here tonight.

Wonwoo tries to pick a different bar each time, because the last thing he needs is to be recognized or remembered. God forbid one of the crew finding out _this_ is how he chooses to release tension the night before a big job.

So, tonight’s bar is almost a hundred blocks away from his apartment; a small, sleazy dive of a place.

The interior is no more impressive than the exterior. The place is dimly-lit and there's a general air of seediness hanging around. Wonwoo draws a few gazes from the patrons as he approaches the bar and feels a flicker of disappointment.

They're mostly older men, and not the type that interests him in the least. Soft, pretentious men in their late forties who watch him yearningly because the days are long gone when they could have hooked up with something as young and attractive as him.

But he's here now, so he might as well lower his standards.

Taking a seat at the bar, he orders a drink.

He needs at least one before he starts feeling less bothered by the atmosphere of the place, like its grubbiness is clinging to him, and the depravity of his mission. And he always reasons that paying for the drinks will limit his consumption, because even though he wants to take the edge off, he needs to stay lucid—for _tomorrow._

He's on his second beer when a stranger drops onto the stool at his side and drawls, “Did you know, a study on bar peanuts revealed they contain twenty-seven different types of urine?”

Wonwoo frowns and glances at the bowl of peanuts he has been steadily munching through.  

As far as pick-up lines go—Wonwoo has had better. A lot better.

In fact, he’s not even sure that _counts_ as a pick-up line.

If anything, it feels like the guy is _judging_ him for indulging in bar peanuts.

Wonwoo yanks his hand out of the bowl and wipes the salt grains on his jeans. “That’s fucking gross—why the _hell_ are you telling me this?”

There’s a quiet snort from next to him, though he doesn’t indulge the stranger by glancing over.

“You seemed like the kind of guy who wouldn’t appreciate one of those cliché pick-up lines people usually try. So, I thought I’d _improvise_.” The man offers mildly.

Without waiting for Wonwoo to respond, the man leans in closer, until Wonwoo can smell the fading traces of his cologne and almost feel the scratch of stubble against his cheek. 

“But, on the off chance that you _do_ like cliché pick-up lines....You must be tired. Because you've been running through my head all night.”

Wonwoo sighs expansively to convey just how very unimpressed he is with that.

The man clears his throat awkwardly. "Okay. That was bad, but I have others!"

“Look,” Wonwoo says stiffly, staring fixedly at his beer. “I didn't come here for conversation. I didn't come to get into a relationship. All I want is stupid, meaningless sex to take my mind of something. Unless you can help me with that, leave me alone.”

The man gives a startled laugh, seemingly taken aback by Wonwoo's bluntness.

“Well,” he says, after a pause. “I think I can do something for you, then.”

Wonwoo turns his head and takes the man in for the first time. The face that greets him is young and brash, brown eyes and a quick smile. The rest of the man is a pleasant surprise too; tall, solid-framed; with nicely muscled arms and a sharp jaw.

They don't really come more his type than this, and Wonwoo's vitriolic sense of self-preservation wages war with his starving sex drive briefly.

He drains the last of his beer from the bottle, licking his lips. “You got a place?”

The stranger smiles broadly, gets to his feet and slings an arm around Wonwoo's shoulder, which makes him bristle. “Yup. Just a short, five-minute walk from here actually.”

“Fine.” Wonwoo shrugs, slaps a couple bills down on the bar, and gets up. “Let's go.”

* * *

 

“So, what’s your name?”

Wonwoo crams his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, ducks his chin down.

Tall+Handsome’s place is five minutes away from the bar. Wonwoo keeps telling him they don't need to talk. Tall+Handsome clearly likes to _ignore_ him.

“Hmm, okay, I’m good at guessing actually,” says Tall+Handsome, evidently interpreting Wonwoo's silence as a challenge. “You strike me as the dark, brooding type. And the black leather biker jacket and biker boots demand a strong name. Something tough and a _little_ shady—like Wonho, or Won-bin.”

“Close, but no cigar,” says Wonwoo, acerbic as always. “Try again.”

Tall+Handsome makes a thoughtful humming noise, tapping a finger against his chin. “Close eh? Okay, what about—Wonwoo?”

Wonwoo huffs into cold night air, using his breath to warm his face. “Lucky guess."

Tall+Handsome inclines his head coolly. “Yes, perhaps you’re right—Jeon Wonwoo from Changwon, twenty-six years old. Tell me, do you still drive a Kawasaki W650?”

Wonwoo freezes mid stride, feeling strangely outmanoeuvred. That doesn't happen often.

He snaps his head to look at the man standing next to him—a man who suddenly knows too much to be just some stranger in a bar.

“How the hell did you—"

Tall+Handsome interrupts his question by handing him a card.

Wonwoo takes it in spite of himself.

It takes him several seconds to realize he's looking at his _own_ driving licence. The first line of his address and his date of birth is printed crisply under his own name.

He blinks in shock. “What the-”

Tall+Handsome hands over Wonwoo's wallet next. Wonwoo flushes angrily as he snatches it back.

He says nothing for a long minute as he stares the stranger down, feeling an odd mixture of hostile and aroused.  

It’s because he’s surprised, he tells himself. He hates surprises.

“You son of a bitch.” Wonwoo snaps finally, squaring his shoulders, “When did you steal my wallet?”

“At the bar, when you were still deciding whether to come home with me.” says Tall+Handsome modestly. “Don’t worry—the $45 dollars and five-year-old cinema ticket stub are still in there. I’m not actually a thief or anything, it’s just a little hobby I picked up when I was a kid. A neat parlour trick that some people find _charming_.” He looks at Wonwoo sidelong, the first glimmer of hesitation appearing in his expression. “Did—did you find it charming?”

Wonwoo flounders for a moment. If he’d been at full mental capacity, he would have had some sharply-barbed comeback for that; though, truthfully, he did find it a _little_ charming.

Just a tad.

In spite of himself, Wonwoo laughs, rubbing a hand over his face tiredly. “Yeah—not bad. Nobody has ever pickpocketed me before, uhm—” He trails off, gesturing at the man vaguely.

“Mingyu.” Tall+Handsome offers, grinning toothily, “Kim Mingyu.”

 

* * *

 

“Would you like a tour?” Mingyu asks, flipping on the living room light as they enter. “Something to drink? I could rustle us up some urine free peanuts.” He says, winking and somehow making the simplest stupidest shit sound cute.

Wonwoo rolls his eyes and starts toeing off his boots. “Cheap parlour tricks aside—I’d prefer it if we didn’t talk.”

Mingyu takes his lead and kicks off his own shoes, starts shrugging out of his jacket.

Once they're in the bedroom Wonwoo expects the silence to reign, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. But almost immediately Mingyu is there, taking Wonwoo by the wrists, pulling his hands away and starting to undo the shirt himself.

His fingers are deft and nimble and he strips Wonwoo in record time, Wonwoo barely keeping up fast enough to unbuckle his belt and slide it out of his loops.

With Wonwoo’s shirt gone, Mingyu smooths a palm down his chest appreciatively.

“I just wanted a drink, you know. I wasn’t planning on picking anyone up tonight. But when I saw you sitting at the bar—I couldn’t help myself.” Mingyu murmurs, moving to press his mouth against Wonwoo’s.

Wonwoo angles away from the kiss.

“I don’t do that,” he tells Mingyu, as the other man’s lips skid against his chin.

“M’kay,” Mingyu mumbles, mouthing at the bend of Wonwoo’s jaw, “No talking _and_ no kissing. You’re just a big ball of fun, huh?”

“You approached me,” Wonwoo reminds him sharply, pushing away and sitting on the edge of the bed so he can pull off his jeans and socks together. “And I told you I didn’t want conversation. I’d rather you just….can we just fuck?"

Mingyu sighs. “Alright then.”

Once he's naked, Wonwoo flops back onto the bed and watches Mingyu strip off, revealing tanned flesh and more muscles. It sends a shiver of – _something_ through Wonwoo's stomach. Trepidation. Fear. Want. He isn't sure. Probably all three.

He rolls onto all fours before Mingyu starts unbuckling his pants, because he doesn't want to look at Mingyu's cock in case it makes this too real for him. He just wants it inside him.

He half-watches while Mingyu pulls open the bedside table drawer and fishes for a condom, then listens to him tear it open and roll it on. He hears the snap of a cap of lube and swallows, shuffling his knees further apart, eyes squeezed shut in anticipation.

It burns like fucking fury when Mingyu pushes the head of his cock into him, stretching him before he's ready.

“Oh, fuck!” Wonwoo hisses, hands screwing into the covers, bucking a little instinctively in a vain attempt to throw Mingyu off. “You fucking jerk. You didn't even--”

He has to break off with a strangled sound when Mingyu shoves himself in deeper.

“No talking,” Mingyu mocks softly next to Wonwoo's ear, sounding amused at the quivering mess he's immediately reduced Wonwoo to.

Then Mingyu  _moves_. Just a roll of his hips at first, jostling his cock where it's buried in Wonwoo's body. He draws back a moment later—draws almost all the way out—before slamming his hips forward so hard the entire bed shakes.

Wonwoo _keens_  into the bed sheets, and the fight bleeds out of him. He wants this too desperately to keep resisting, and he grunts—pain and pleasure both—when Mingyu repeats the manoeuvre. Filling him, fucking him, jolting him hard against the mattress.

Wonwoo, in turn, keeps his mouth shut, braces on his hands and knees, and takes it.

It's hard—Mingyu size is impressive, bigger than any of Wonwoo's partners thus far, almost too much for him to handle, especially without any preparation or warning.

Part of him wants to say  _stop_ , but most of him doesn't because this is so exactly what he needs right now.

He needs to be used and bruised and just  _fucked_.

The pace Mingyu sets is fast and rough, and his hands wrapped around either side of Wonwoo's waist clench with every thrust, leaving deep scores from his nails on Wonwoo's stomach.

And Wonwoo loves this, he does, just letting go and being debased and filthy like this.

He lets his head loll back onto Mingyu's shoulder, feeling the man’s breath wild and fast against his neck.

“Mingyu, do you think you can—" He asks while he still can, all on a rush of breath. 

He's not sure what he intends to say, maybe  _slow down_  or  _take it easy_ , but just then Mingyu, who had been outlining his left shoulder blade with kisses, fastens his teeth in the junction between his neck and shoulder and bites down hard.

Immediately Wonwoo is making this feeble whining sound, which just encourages Mingyu to bite _harder_.

It hurts like hell—but when Mingyu lets go, the sudden release of pressure feels amazing, and the scrape of stubble over his shoulder as Mingyu nuzzles into the bruise roughly makes Wonwoo shudder.

For some reason it's right then that Wonwoo has this stupid thought –  _I'm being fucked by some stranger I just picked up. Some stranger who could seriously hurt me_  –and simultaneously realizes, he is completely, blindingly hard.

At once, he braces his weight on one arm and wraps his other hand around his dick to stroke himself.

He can't believe how good he feels like this.

Head-to-toe, his whole body is coming alive; but nowhere more than where he and Mingyu are joined.

“Mingyu, Harder,” he hears himself rasp.

Mingyu snorts a laugh behind him and, in response, shoves down on Wonwoo right between the shoulder blades.

Wonwoo’s trembling arm buckles and he lands awkwardly on his shoulder before Mingyu rights him so that he's flat on his chest, ass in the air.

Irritated, Wonwoo moves to plant his hand in the mattress and prop himself up again, but Mingyu captures his wrist in one hand and squeezes hard. When Wonwoo stills – snarling at the humiliating position, but compliant—Mingyu brings both hands to his ass cheeks and grips tight enough to leave welts, pushing them further apart so he can cram his dick deeper.

Wonwoo groans. He feels like he's being split in half. He tilts his face into the pillow and feels sogginess against his cheek where he's been panting like a dog.

He's never had sex like this before – where his partner just  _takes him_ , forcing him into a complete surrender, where all he can do is jerk himself off in quick, unsteady movements, spread his knees even more and rock helplessly back into Mingyu's thrusts, like a cock-hungry slut.

He knows he's close when he hears himself groaning out random fricatives, mindlessly. Mingyu must know it, too, because suddenly, he shifts angle, and takes his hand away from Wonwoo's ass to smack his hand off his cock. He takes Wonwoo’s cock in hand instead, and his grip is strong and confident.

Wonwoo shivers – he's never let any of the guys he fucks touch his cock before—but it seems absurdly natural here and besides, he doesn't have it in him to voice a protest anyway.

The build-up in his gut is an exquisite, sizzling heat. He can feel it now, he's so close--

Mingyu's grip tightens painfully and he pumps Wonwoo quickly a few more times, and that's it, Wonwoo's spilling hotly all over Mingyu's hand and the sheets, muffling his gasps into the pillow so that he almost suffocates himself. The pleasure and pain mingle and crescendo, and his release is so intense he almost blacks out.

Mingyu hasn't finished yet though, he's is still pounding into him and all Wonwoo can do is writhe senselessly and groan until Mingyu screws into him in a final, vicious thrust that forces the full length of his cock as deep as physically possible.

Wonwoo groans at the jerk and throb of heat through the condom inside him, grateful for the pillow stuffed into his mouth, because surely the whole apartment block would have heard him otherwise.

They cling to each other in shivering stillness during the quiet that follows. Mingyu’s breath steadies out slowly, hot over Wonwoo's skin. Several seconds pass before he at last draws back, and Wonwoo's abused hole is finally allowed to clench and then relax.

Wonwoo stretches out flat on his stomach and catches his breath, his heart slowing from its frantic, stuttered pace.

A moment later, Mingyu hits the mattress at his side, sighing happily and equally dripping in sweat.

Wonwoo steals a covert glance at him as he peels the condom off and ties it. There's a streak of blood on it.

“Hope I wasn't too rough on you.” Mingyu asks, flicking the condom carelessly at the trash can.

Wonwoo shakes his head. “No. That was….that was…”

Probably the best sex he’s ever had?

Yeah— _definitely_.

He feels like he's fucking floating, all his limbs are so light and his mind so blissfully blank.

For once, he actually feels good and he allows himself a moment ease down, willing himself not to fall asleep….

* * *

 

Wonwoo eyes snap open at a sudden sound.

Mingyu, flushing the toilet in the adjacent en-suite.  He glances over at Wonwoo when the latter stirs.

“Didn't mean to wake you, sorry.”

“What—when did I --” Wonwoo squints in the dark, and suddenly the words sink in.

He fucking fell asleep. In Mingyu's apartment,  _in Mingyu's bed_.

“Fuck, fuck,” Wonwoo chants, twisting around in the sheets. “Fuck, where's your—Mingyu, what's the fucking time!?”

Mingyu quirks an eyebrow at him, plucks something off the floor and throws it at Wonwoo before wandering to the sink.

Wonwoo fumbles with it in the dark. A cellphone.

It flashes the time brightly when he flips it open: _5:23am_

“Aw—shit!” Wonwoo huffs, frustrated. He nearly falls out of bed, miscalculating his ability to move his lower body, on his way to locate his clothing. “Fuck, fuck,  _shit_ , why did you let me fall asleep, asshole!”

“Uhm, because you seemed so tired after our mind blowing sex.” Mingyu shrugs affably. “Thought you could use the rest. Besides, what do you have to be up so early for?”

“You wouldn’t understand.” Wonwoo snaps, not looking at Mingyu. He gathers his shaky limbs and stands up, scrambling around, dressing as quickly as he possibly can in the dark. “I have important shit to do today. Life changing shit. I've got shit to plan, I,  _fuck_ ,--”

“Relax—it’s still early. Just come back to bed.” Mingyu says, crawling back into bed with a shuddering yawn. He taps the empty space next to him and for one surreal second, Wonwoo wants to join him.

He _wants_ to crawl back under the covers where it's warm and go back to sleep and not have to think about the hundred or so blocks between him and his own apartment, how cold it is outside or the job he’s pulling later today.

But he wasn’t kidding—this is life changing shit. He can't back out now.

As soon as his clothes are on and he looks halfway presentable, he grabs his jacket and scrambles down the corridor in a hurry.

“Wait—aren’t you going to give me your number?” Mingyu calls after him sleepily.

“No.” Wonwoo snarls before he slams the door.

* * *

 

Wonwoo’s role is simple.

He’s a distraction.

Modern banking methods means that very little money is actually stored on the bank floor. The real payload is stored out back, behind walls and walls of brick and steel and if they’re every going to get it, they need a distraction. So half the teams job is to create enough of a ruckus front of shop, that security is too preoccupied to notice the small timed explosion happening a floor below.

That’s Jeonghan’s plan anyway. And Jeonghan’s overseeing it all from the corner of the lobby where he’s _pretending_ to open a checking account.

As planned, Wonwoo sticks to the periphery of the room until the clock strikes 13:00, where he eventually shuffles into line at one of the banking kiosks.

There’s half a dozen people standing in front of him, and in five minutes—if everything continues to go as planned, Jeonghan will give the signal and Wonwoo and Minghao can get to work.  

Four minutes—and Wonwoo shuffles further in the queue. He’s feeling the ache in his ass and the throbbing of scraped skin over his hips from the night before. He finds his hand drifting to the bruise under his collar, fingertips pressing into it just hard enough to make it hurt. 

He shouldn’t have gone out last night.

Three minutes and thirty seconds—and he lets his eyes close briefly, trying to will away the headache that is blossoming just above his left eyebrow.

A _Mingyu_ shaped headache.

Wonwoo doesn't understand why he can’t stop thinking about the guy.

Usually he fucks and forgets as soon as he possibly can, flushing the memory from mind. But for some insane reason Mingyu stays with him. His memory makes Wonwoo burn with embarrassment and shift uncomfortably on his feet because he's never— _never_  let anybody take him like that before.

Even though everything about their exchange was humiliating, degrading—Wonwoo knows he hasn't come like that since he was a teenager. If _ever_.

Three minutes—and someone grabs him by the wrist, startling him.

“Wonwoo?”

Wonwoo swivels his head to the side and the bottom drops out of his stomach drops.

_Oh—fuck._

Mingyu is standing there, tall and imposing, wearing a sharp grey suit with his hair swept artfully to the side.

He looks impossibly better in a suit—like a living wet dream and Wonwoo feels a hot, surging desire to punch him and kiss him. Not necessarily in that order.

“Fancy seeing you here,” says Mingyu, offering him a slow once over. He tugs on Wonwoo’s arm again, flashing him a dangerous smile. “Guess I will be getting your number after all.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” says Wonwoo, astonished. He glances around himself uncertainly, taking a moment to compose himself. He’s trying not to panic, trying to push down the overwhelming desire to shove the guy and run.

“Are you _following_ me?” He says, barely holding back an indignant noise. 

“ _Please_ ,” Mingyu scoffs, the grin mutating into a smirk so over-the-top that it makes Wonwoo wince. “Flattering as your opinion of me may be, this was a complete coincidence. I just happened to recognise your jacket as you queued up. I work here actually.” Mingyu smirks, tapping his top jacket pocket where the badge flashes with the bold lettering: _Kim Mingyu, Head of Security._

Wonwoo hears the distant roar of blood in his ears like he's about to pass out. “Oh, shit.”

He jerks backward, straight into another queuing customer, who drops her purse, sending loose change flying across the floor. Mingyu gives him a slit eyed look of suspicion and bends down to help her pick it up.

"Dude, what's gotten into you?"

Now people are looking over at them, the conversations around them hushing.

“Sorry—sorry.” Wonwoo gasps, still backing away. 

“Hey, wait.” Mingyu calls out, starting after him when Wonwoo spins on his heels and leaves the queue.

He starts to shoulder blindly through the crowd, making a beeline for the exit. He passes Minghao as he heads towards the glass double doors— and makes brief, deliberate eye contact that he hopes is enough to convey the message: _abort_.

Minghao eyeballs him, exchanging a quick, hissed conversation with Jeonghan in his earpiece, but Wonwoo does not slow from his panicked pace.

As soon as the glass doors swish shut behind him, he gallops down the stairs before Mingyu can get his ass in gear and follow him.

“Wonu. Where the fuck are you _going_?” Jeonghan says hurriedly, static hissing in his earpiece.  

“We’ve been made.” Wonwoo answers, touching the bud and turning his head, darting behind a moving bus to cross the road. “I know one of the security guards—we need to leave.”

The comm crackles. “What?”

Wonwoo doesn’t get a chance to repeat himself—because that’s when the first round of gunfire starts.  


	2. Self made man

“Shit—shit—shit!” Minghao chants.

“What? What is it?” Jeonghan asks through the comm.

Minghao glances over his shoulder, watching Wonwoo’s back as he moves towards the exit. “Wonu’s abandoned his post. He’s leaving.”

“ _Why_?” Jeonghan hisses.

“Hell if I know.” Minghao frowns. He’s been attentive to his own surroundings, hasn’t gotten the sense of any danger from his end, but something has spooked Wonwoo. “I think security spooked him.”

There’s shuffling, another voice on the line, and some cursing from Jeonghan. “Fuck. Just—hold your position.

Minghao’s hand is wrapped around the gun in his coat pocket before he answers. “And do _what?_ I’m almost at the kiosk.”

“Just—improvise or something. I’ve planned this for too long to walk out now.” Jeonghan snaps.

Minghao swallows thickly and shuffles further in the queue.

He doesn’t _think_ he looks outwardly suspicious. He’s eschewed his usual attire of black cargo pants and black t-shirt for a cheap navy suit. He’s even wearing a fucking tie to blend in with the plebeians. None of the security guards near him are changing direction, heading toward him or where Jeonghan is loitering in the corner. They’re just strolling along, doing their thing—expect for one….

The tall guard in grey who had approached Wonwoo earlier.

He’s straightening up now from helping an old woman with her purse, but his gaze is locked on Minghao. Or more specifically—where Minghao has his hand wrapped around the gun concealed in his jacket.

“Oh—fuck this.” Minghao snarls.

He pulls his gun out the rest of the way and aims at the guard.  It's probably the most stupid thing he can do under the circumstances, but realistically he hasn't much of a choice.

Minghao’s first shot misses its mark completely; the guard may be tall, but he’s not lacking in agility and he’s clearly anticipating the attack. The second bullet gets lodged in a wooden desk the guard dives behind for cover.

Minghao doesn’t get a third attempt because now he’s diving for cover himself, as a wave of bullets fill the air and people run, screaming from the lobby in every direction.

Minghao ducks low behind another desk to avoid taking a bullet to the head.

Now, there’s more than one guard and— _holy fucking shit_ —are those Beretta’s they’re packing?

“This isn’t what I meant by improvise!” Jeonghan yells, joining him behind a desk with a furious scowl carved into his handsome face.

Minghao eyes him sideways. “Well—you should have been more specific!”

“Do you have any idea who you’re trying to steal from?” Yells one guard.

There’s the sound of wood splintering as they riddle the desk with gunfire.

“You’re either really brave, or really fucking stupid.” Another guard offers.

The bullet-ridden desk they’re huddled behind barely provides cover for the two of them.

Probably best, then, that they’re down a few men. But with Wonwoo gone, Jihoon waiting below and DK nowhere in sight, it leaves just Minghao and Jeonghan to return fire against the miniature army that has them pinned down.

Jeonghan adjusts his stance so he’s no longer shooting over his shoulder and empties the last of his clip in the direction of a trio of guards that are attempting to flank their position. They’ve got bullet proof vests though, to go along with their sub-machine guns, so it accomplishes not a lot.

As he ducks down to reload, Minghao leans in to whisper in his ear. “Give Jihoon the signal! It’ll take some pressure off us.”

“I can’t. I can’t get a signal right now, and we don’t exactly have this situation under control.” Jeonghan says, and Minghao notes with alarm that he's starting to sound a little rough, slightly frayed around the edges.

Not good.

Minghao's not scared anymore, if indeed he ever was.

Minghao is, distantly, a little worried; they haven't planned for this.

They're going to need to retreat, and he's unpleasantly caught by the realization that he has no idea how Jihoon might react to this shift in circumstances.

Jeonghan twirls a finger, which Minghao is at a complete loss over the meaning of. “I don’t know your secret sign language. _Nobody_ knows your secret sign language. That’s why we have earpieces you dick.”

Jeonghan flinches as a bullet passes close enough to induce his pucker-factor. “I was trying to say—make a run for the door, I’ll cover you. Then you can cover _me_.”

“Got it.” Minghao nods, mouth a firm line beneath his dark glasses as he pulls out a second Glock.

He readies both guns, poised on the balls of his feet, and waits until Jeonghan says—“Now!”

Jeonghan takes up a position behind the table while Minghao sprints across the lobby, but the open-ness of the square provides no protection, and almost as soon as he’s moving, there's a spray of bullets following his trail.

Minghao can hear Jeonghan returning fire, but he’s one guy against five, one Glock against several Beretta M12’s. He glances over his shoulder just in time to see Jeonghan take a bullet to the shoulder and go down.

It _might_ be a clean entry.

Jeonghan _could_ still be alive, though as far as Minghao’s concerned, it’s too late for him.

He bursts through the double doors, bullets chasing him the entire way and practically flings himself down the stairs.

His bike is parked a mere block away, but there’s the flashing lights and sirens of incoming trouble so he doesn’t hesitate to throw himself in the back of the first car he sees.

An Uber by the looks of it.

How _convenient_.

* * *

 

Junhui’s finally getting his life together—which makes for a nice change.

He’s got a new job as an Uber driver, ferrying business men across the city; the pay isn’t great, and he has to wash, shine and wax his car every day, but the tips go straight into his pocket.

He’s got a new apartment in a building just old enough to feel comfortably worn in but not so old that everything creaks and nothing works properly. It _is_ in the shady part of town, but it’s a darn site better than the four walls of the prison cell he’s recently had the pleasure of leaving.

And he’s got a credit card, with his _own_ name on it this time.  

Identity theft was all fun and good for a while—but he’s on the clean and narrow now. No more jail time for him, thank you very much.

“Finally—things are looking up for me Ma!” He tells his mother over the phone.

Which, when he thinks about it— _might_ have been a clear invitation for the universe to jinx his entire life.

He can't quite make out his mother’s answer, sadly, due to the fact that someone jumps into the back of his car just then, snatches his phone away and flings it out of the window.

Jun turns his head and smiles levelly at the navy suit-clad fellow sitting behind him. "Now," he says, "was that really necessary?"

“Drive!” The stranger yells.

Jun blinks, seriously starting to rethink this entire good fortune. In particular, he's opposed to the goon aiming a gun to his head.

That _right there_ , in Jun's opinion, is a bad sign.

“Aw—no. No, no, no. Please don’t pick me.”

“Drive.” The man repeats shortly, and Jun mimes pulling his hair out in rage.

“Please pick someone else. I was just getting my life together.” He says, aiming for innocence and probably only arriving at panicky.

The goon barks a laugh, poking the muzzle of his gun at Jun's temple. Despite the urge to do so, Jun doesn't close his eyes.

“You need to move the car, _now_.” The goon says. His voice is very nearly civil.

Jun holds his hands up placatingly. “Look—I’ll make a terrible hostage. I’m a working-class male in his mid-twenties with a terrible credit rating and a criminal record. The police will not hesitate to shoot the both of us. You should find a woman to kidnap. Or a _child_. Or a woman _with_ a child. Women and children make _great_ hostages. Look—there’s one across the road.”

“Drive or I will decorate the inside of your windshield with brain matter!” The man hisses, finger twitching on the trigger.

“Alright, alright. Jesus.” Jun huffs, putting the car into gear.

He slams his foot on the gas and pulls out into the traffic, earning a few honks that he ignores.

They drive off, leaving the wail of sirens behind them and losing themselves in the urban bustle after a few blocks.

There aren't any more threats from the backseat, only some breathless directions as they navigate through the gridlock of traffic.

Jun tries to surreptitiously watch the man in the rear-view mirror when he’s no longer teasing the speed limit.

He should _probably_ keep his eyes on the road, but his captor is pretty fine looking actually. With mussed, black hair that’s a tad long at the back, and an equally overgrown fringe plastered on his forehead. Cute even—if you ignore the ill-fitting suit, the bad attitude and the gun he still has aimed at the back of Jun’s head.

Jun is, however, ready to overlook the gun—and the car-jacking/kidnapping because it’s been a while since he’s seen a guy this hot.

Yes, making heart eyes at the man holding a gun to your person is pretty low hanging fruit even for him, but it was slim pickins’ in prison.

Though he can’t see the man’s eyes through the glinting gold of his sunglasses, the man’s eyebrows draw down a fraction as he catches Jun looking.

“You wanna maybe—keep your eyes on the fucking road?” he suggests— _orders_? It’s hard to tell with that dry as paper tone.

“I’m just memorising your features—for when the cops ask me to describe you later.” Jun says, though he really shouldn’t be running his mouth, he can’t help himself. “He was a tall man, officer, in his mid-twenties. Wearing an ugly suit and a mullet. Yeah—I _know_ , a mullet in this day and age.”

The gun pokes the back of his neck.

It’s cold and makes a chill run down his spine. “I was kidding. Geez—can’t you take a joke?” Jun amends with a roll of his eyes.

His captor quirks an amused brow. “I’ll let you know when I hear one.”

Jun exhales and turns his gaze back to the road.

He calmly switches lanes, but the angle of his jaw is rigid with tension and his hands clenching around the steering wheel rhythmically.

“So,” He says conversationally, when the drive seems interminable, buildings and trees zooming past them. “What happened back there? Are you wanted for theft, or _murder_? Because one of those is going to make our blossoming friendship more awkward.”

The man reaches up to drag his glasses down and his gaze locks with Jun's in the rear-view mirror, eyes narrowed under the threat of midday sun.

“Do you always talk this much?” He drawls.

Jun shrugs expansively. “I’m a cab driver—it’s part and parcel of my job _. Sort of_. Passengers usually like conversation when I’m chauffeuring them about. Sometimes they tell me about themselves, about their struggles and I impart my worldly wisdom. I’m like a therapist, a guidance counsellor and an agony aunt—rolled into one. Except I don’t get paid for it.”

The man’s voice goes quiet, hard-edged. “I’ll pay you to _shut up_.”

Jun makes a face. “With what? A complimentary pen from the bank? I couldn’t help but notice your hands are empty, so whatever you were doing at the bank clearly wasn’t _successful_.”

To Jun’s surprise, that makes the guy break into soft, short laughter.

That’s a good sign. Laughter is _always_ a good sign. They’re building rapport.

The man’s gun pokes him in the head again.

Or, _maybe not._

“Fine—no talking. Message received. But I’m turning the radio on. It’s my car—I should at least get to do _one_ thing I want.”

Jun turns up the radio, fingers tapping on the steering wheel along to the song.

It’s a fitting tune: ‘The Passenger’ by _Iggy Pop_.

‘For Whom The Bell Tolls’ by _Metallica_ , would be _more_ fitting, but Jun doesn’t get a say what songs play on the radio.  

For now, he has nothing to do but reflect on the glumness of this situation and try to entertain his captor in the vain hope he might be sufficiently charmed to release him.

Jun is, above all things, an optimist.

“Well, are you gonna tell me where we’re going?” Jun offers, when he thinks the silence has dragged on too long.

The guy looks over his shoulder, out the back window, a nervous expression on his face. There are no sirens or lights following them. The guy could order him to pull over now, could jump out and this would be all over.

Instead he settles in the backseat and keeps his gun aimed at Jun’s head. 

“The docks.”

“Oh, shit. Are you going to slit my throat, tie my feet to an anchor and throw me in the water?” Jun asks wearily, then regrets that almost as soon as it's out of his mouth.

He probably shouldn’t be giving the guy _ideas_.

The man stares up at him through his fringe for a long moment. “I’m thinking about it.”

* * *

 

This heist will go down in history as Jeonghan’s least successful.

Though, in his defence, he hadn’t planned for Wonwoo to walk out of the bank seconds before he gave the signal, or for Minghao to panic and start shooting up the place and leave him behind, or for the security guards to be so well _armed_.

Why the fuck are security guards in a bank even _doing_ with sub-machine guns?

It’s a bank in Seoul in the middle of the afternoon, not some war torn—

Jeonghan can’t even be bothered to finish that thought. Possibly because of the massive _blood loss._  

He isn’t so sure where exactly he is running.

He isn’t sure how long he’ll be able to _keep_ running either. But he’s already a wanted man with an arrest record the length of his arm, and shooting up a bank in broad daylight is going to send him straight to a high security prison for at least 15 years.

So, he has no choice but to keep running.

He considers ducking into an alley somewhere or maybe trying to hide in one of the bars lining the street he’s sprinting— _now limping_ —down. But there’s blood dripping down one sleeve of his jacket and he knows he’ll have set no more than one _foot_ inside a bar before someone calls the cops.

Speaking of cops— _are they still following him?_

The whine of the sirens had stopped a few blocks back, but he doesn’t dare look around to check.

Instead, he turns right into a side street, stumbles down a flight of stairs and loses his footing.

Landing on his injured shoulder, Jeonghan feels the bullet shift with a rush of hot agony and a nauseating crunch. He doesn’t scream—just barely keeps that jot of dignity—but the wounded-animal sound escapes him despite his best intentions. 

_Jesus!_

He breathes through it and staggers upright again, knowing there will probably be more pain to follow if he doesn’t keep moving.

Pain is never a one-time deal, in his experience.

He manages to limp down another narrow street, but his vision is blurring now and he realizes that he needs to find an alternative for the running. And soon.

Just when he starts thinking about jumping into a dumpster and laying low there, he sees a large, ominous looking building at the end of the street.

A church with sign at the front that reads: _‘All welcome’_ to be more specific.

The doors are old and rusted, squeaking a little on their hinges as Jeonghan pushes them open just wide enough that he can squeeze through.

It’s quiet inside. Dark. Not a soul in sight.

Perfect.

He drops into one of the benches and tries to catch his breath, propping his injured shoulder on the top of the bench to elevate it.

It should be safe here for a while.

He’s just hoping Minghao, DK and Jihoon made it out okay.

Oh God….. _Jihoon_.

* * *

 

Jihoon’s been worried about this job from the beginning.

With good reason, it turns out.

“I’ll ask you again. _Who. Do. You. Work. For_.” Each of these words is accompanied with a backhanded slap to Jihoon’s face.

Jihoon grunts and stays in place because he really doesn’t have much choice about it.

He is, after all, tied down to a fucking chair. And Judging by the echoes, he's in someplace big and empty—the basement, maybe. His hands are cold from cut-off circulation and his legs feel a bit numb.

“Who is it?” Crazy snarls, grabbing Jihoon by the hair, which is just fucking undignified.

Jihoon grits his teeth when his head is yanked backwards painfully.

Crazy is, in no particular order: the most annoying person on the planet, the one who caught him rigging the explosives in the underground car park and gave him the spectacular bump on his head, as well as some other assorted bruises, and his current warden.

Crazy’s a thin, wiry looking guy, but he’s got a heavy hand and when Jihoon fails to be entertaining he brings it down across Jihoon’s face, again and again.

Jihoon debates spitting blood in his eye the next time he leans down to speak to him, but that’s likelier to hinder than help.

“Your accomplices— _left you behind_.” Crazy wheedles, and something inside Jihoon goes cold with fury at the suggestion. “They don’t give a _shit_ about you. They ran off and let you get caught, so _why_ are you still protecting them? Give me their names and this will end. Hasn’t anyone ever told you—there’s no honour amongst thieves.”

Numerous people have, in fact, told Jihoon that. It’s just that they were blatantly wrong.

That’s not who _he_ is.

Jihoon swallows, convulsive, and croaks out, “Go fuck yourself.”

The man backhands him again. “You’re fucking useless. Wait till the boss gets here. You think I’m bad—you’ve got another thing coming. The boss will…”

After that, Jihoon tunes him out.

If the man wants to rant, it’s his time.

Jihoon waits, still and not putting up resistance, until the man runs out of steam and leaves the room with a promise to return later.

There’s a variety of unpleasant sharp things placed strategically where Jihoon can see them. Supposedly this is meant to be a threat, except that Jihoon is mostly thinking of how he’ll use them on the Crazy’s face once he’s out of this chair.

He’s got a thief’s hands, Jihoon does.

What’s a little bit of rope between him and freedom?

* * *

 

Seungcheol is up two million dollars when his phone vibrates against his thigh.

The poker game's getting a fair amount of attention, the players are all decently good, and Seungcheol has an enthusiastic Supermodel who stumbled into his lap (on purpose, he's sure, but it's not gentlemanly to point that out), and doesn't seem to want to leave.

For the life of him, Seungcheol isn't sure how to get her to go without being rude, and it's not helping that across the table his main competitor has a blonde one he appears to be taken with, and the two girls seem to be engaged in some kind of silent one-upmanship.

Seungcheol has had to shift her roving hands at least twice already, and he's not overly fond of having his ear licked by strangers.

It’s ridiculous. He knows how to fend off unwanted advances from guys, but he always feels a _little_ caught out when _women_ put their hands on him.

Once upon a time he wouldn’t have considered it a hardship at all to have a young, pretty thing sitting in his lap. But these days he’s more circumspect about who he lets get close, because he can never be sure if they’re interested in _him_ —or the fact that his surname is printed on the poker chips, the back of the cards and the front of the fucking Casino.

His phone buzzes again, but he can’t reach it—not with this girl on his lap.

He’s expecting a message about some minor diplomatic papers, so he would like to unseat her to check everything is in order.  

“Sweetheart,” Seungcheol murmurs. “Maybe you'd like to get yourself a drink from the bar?”

He lifts a thousand-dollar bill from his jacket pocket with two fingers and gives it to her. She giggles and takes a sip of his scotch, then starts folding the bill into some sort of origami creation.

Seungcheol suspects it's going to be a fucking heart, and this is one of those moments he's glad to be gay because he honestly doesn't think he has the fortitude to deal with women on an ongoing basis.

He can't imagine a guy acting so ridiculous.

She ends up fashioning the bill into a flower instead, which she promptly tucks into the lapel of his jacket.

Seungcheol offers her a wan smile and reaches for his scotch again. He's not happy to see his lap-warmer's sipped away a considerable amount.

 He empties the glass and gestures to the waiter, but just then, there’s a light tap on his shoulder and Seungcheol turns his head to find the Casino floor manager standing at his side, a tense expression on his face.

“Yes?” Seungcheol prompts.

“Boo Seungkwan has requested to speak with you, Sir. It’s a very urgent matter.” The man says meaningfully.

Seungcheol doesn’t typically like being interrupted mid game, but he’s been looking for an excuse to get the fuck out of here, and this one is as good as any.  

“Of course,” Seungcheol says and stands up, unseating the young woman from his lap. There's a cry of protest around the table—it's the middle of a hand—and Seungcheol just says, “I fold” and leaves everything on the table.

The Floor manager can sort it out, or not, and honestly Seungcheol doesn't give a fuck.

He’s in the back of his limousine, headed home when his phone vibrates again.

“What the fuck is going on?” Seungcheol answers without preamble. He puts Seungkwan on speakerphone, since he needs his hands to light a cigarette.

“Attempted robbery—group of five males. Armed with small weaponry and timed explosives for the vault.” Seungkwan shouts above the background din. Where the fuck is he calling from, a monster truck derby?

“So?” Seungcheol drawls, blowing smoke through the crack in the window.

There's a moment of perplexed silence from the other end, before Seungkwan takes a deep breath and says, “Oh, uhm—I thought you’d want to know.”

“Did they _get_ anything?” Seungcheol asks. His tone is a bit on the pointed side, but he doesn’t pay all these people to look after his business interests just to be bothered when shit gets tough.

“No, nothing. The vault they were targeting didn’t even have that much money.” There’s a pause, then Seungkwan speaks more quietly. “I was just a little concerned, seeing as we’re bound to have police sniffing all over the place, looking through CCTV and doing background checks on the staff.”

Seungcheol sighs expansively. “ _Let them._ Give them anything they want. They’ll be too focused on the robbers to notice anything.”

“There’s one more thing.” Seungkwan adds quickly.

Seungcheol doesn’t bother to keep the annoyance out of his voice, “I’m busy—let Mingyu handle it.” He flicks the half-finished cigarette out the window, and reaches down to swipe the phone shut.

“We’ve captured one of them.” Seungkwan blurts out, stopping Seungcheol from hanging up.

Seungcheol takes him off speakerphone and brings the phone back up to his ear in time to hear Seungkwan say. “We moved him to the compound, since the police were at the bank. Soonyoung is questioning him now, but he said you usually like to be involved in the _questioning_.”

Seungcheol keeps his tone light, although his heart has kicked up a notch.

His business has evolved beyond the need for him to get his own hands dirty, but that doesn’t mean he’s stopped finding a sort of vicious delight in it.

“Yeah, I do.” He leans forward to taps the driver’s glass partition. When the man glances back, Seungcheol makes a round-about gesture with his finger. The man nods.

“I’m on my way.”

* * *

 

He’s just testing the binding on his hands when the man returns.

During that time, Jihoon has managed to suss a few things out: he’s not in the bank anymore, he knows that much for certain. The layout of the room they’re holding him in doesn’t fit in with the blue prints he’s been studying for the past three weeks.

They’ve moved him _somewhere_.

Somewhere out of the way, where the cleaners won’t stumble on anything and no suspicious noises would be heard.

Which _really_ doesn’t bode well for him.

It’s also become apparent that whoever these people are—they’re on the same side of the law as Jihoon. They’re criminals _too_. The Bank, the faux authority of their suits and ties and shiny shoes are all just a front for something much bigger.

It’s the only logical explanation Jihoon can think of; law abiding citizens would have handed him over to the authorities the moment they captured him.

“Had time to think it over?” Crazy crouches, looking Jihoon in the face. He has the kind of expression that could look friendly if it wasn’t attached to a psychopath.

Jihoon levels him a dispassionate look and keeps his mouth firmly shut.

“I was hoping you’d be difficult,” Crazy says, and his grin turns really bloody ugly at that. He rolls the tray of shiny, sharp looking instruments closer and snaps a pair of latex gloves on.

“When I’m finished with you—you’re going to look like an impressionist portrait.”

Jihoon debates a cheeky reply versus begging for mercy. Pride is overrated - Jihoon can take pain, but he’d really rather not.

“You don’t mind if I put on some mood music? Music always helps me work.” Crazy says, grin widening. He nods at the mirror then lifts up something that looks like a scalpel, just as the music starts to play.

Jihoon recognises the song immediately, and his snort echoes off the bleak concrete walls.

‘Stuck in the middle with you’ by ‘Stealers Wheel’— _honestly_ , the cliché of it all pains Jihoon worse than the throb in his cheek.

Mind, a scalpel’s going to hurt worse than that. Jihoon considers trying to tip his chair back and kicking the guy in the nuts when the there’s a knock on the mirror.

Crazy tenses, eyes going wide for split second before he straightens up and steps away.

He sets the scalpel down and rolls the tray of instruments out of reach, then leaves the room without a word.

 _Ok. What now_?

 

* * *

 

“Sorry for disturbing your day Boss.” Mingyu says, falling into step beside Seungcheol as he rounds the last flight of stairs.

Seungcheol waves him off, striding down the corridor with purpose. “You know—this is my favourite part of the job. I’d hate to miss out on a good interrogation. Besides—it’s not everyday someone is stupid enough to try and _steal_ from me.”

“Not everyone knows who you are.” Mingyu says, and at Seungcheol’s sour sideways glance, he quickly amends. “ _What I meant was_ —not all your business interests are transparent. Your name isn’t exactly plastered all over the front of the bank. If it was, I’m sure we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

Seungcheol accepts the comment as the appeasement it is and diverts the topic of conversation slightly. “Seungkwan tells me you _spoke_ with one of the thieves.”

“Uh—yes.” Mingyu fumbles—unusual for him. “Briefly, in the queue. Before the shit storm started.”

“You _know_ him?”

Mingyu makes a vaguely dismissive gesture, as if the question is too absurd to answer. “No. I—thought he looked suspicious, a little cagey and I approached him casually to suss him out. I think that set him on edge and made him bolt. That’s when another started firing his gun.”

“Hmm.” Seungcheol muses, something's not adding up. “I’ll need to see the footage.”

“I’ll arrange it.” Mingyu says shortly.

They walk down a long stretch of corridor in silence until Seungcheol deigns to pick up the conversation again.

“Any casualties?”

“None of your men. One of the robbers took a round to the shoulder, but he managed to limp out the door. The guy we caught was loitering in the underground car park with the explosives. I gather he was waiting for a signal, didn’t realise his friends had already cut and run.”

Seungcheol grins, predatory. “I’m sure he doesn’t appreciate being _left behind_.”

“He hasn’t ratted them out, if that’s what you mean.” Mingyu says without missing a beat. “He’s stubborn boss. We haven’t got a peep out of him. Not even his _name_.”

Seungcheol doesn’t know if he’s annoyed or pleased. Both, somehow. “They all break eventually.”

“I don’t know boss, this guy’s different.” Mingyu says, coming to a stop by a window.

It’s a two-way mirror with a view into the interrogation room.

Seungcheol spares a glance inside to see Soonyoung looming over a man—boy?

He does a double take and feels his jaw drop.

Correction: _a small man_ , strapped to a chair.

“That’s him?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?” Seungcheol says, in the sharp voice he uses when he has no intention of playing games.

“Yes.” Mingyu nods.

Seungcheol can't speak for a very long minute. With his slick, dark hair and slight build, the captive plays the role of every one of Seungcheol’s Biker fantasies beautifully in fitted leather trousers, black driving gloves, and a sleek shirt with the collar popped high.

“But. He looks…”

_Like a wet dream I had the other night? The perfect size for my lap? An angry kitten?_

“Fun-size.” Seungcheol settles on, because it seems like the least ridiculous option but also the best way to sum him up.

Mingyu makes a noise in his throat that's amused and ever so slightly patronising at the same time. “Don’t let that fool you. It took four of my men to restrain him.”

Seungcheol studies the captive through the mirror, appraising, then shakes his head minutely. “ _Seriously?_ ”

“Seriously.” Mingyu echoes with a nod. He taps his wrist watch, “And it’s been over two hours since we threw him in there. He must know by now we’re not planning on handing him over to the police, he must _know_ what that means and yet—not a peep. He’s loyal to a fault.”

Seungcheol frowns at that.

Loyalty is hard to come about these days, and almost everyone has a price. Some joke it’s for the weak and uninitiated, but Seungcheol’s always respected loyalty.

He could _use_ loyalty.

Seungcheol and Mingyu watch through the two-way mirror as Soonyoung picks up a scalpel and starts doing Michael Madsen’s dance in homage to Reservoir Dogs.

The captive doesn’t flinch. He just looks at the sky as if imploring for patience.

Yeah— _no_.

Seungcheol taps on the glass and Soonyoung stills, scalpel held inches away from the captive’s ear.

It’s unusual for Seungcheol to feel charitable, but he likes to reward loyalty. Regardless of how dangerously attractive the package might be or who its working for.  

* * *

 

The rope’s almost loose when the door swings open again and a man walks into the room.

Not the amateur who’s been knocking him about for the past _how_ many hours, but somehow this guy’s _worse_.

Something about the way he carries himself speaks of experience.

Jihoon can't see his face this far away, especially since one of his eyes is starting to swell up, but he knows by the man’s stride, and certainly by his voice when he says, “No interruptions,” that he’s in charge here.

Not to mention, he’s very— _what’s the word Jihoon’s looking for_ —aesthetically pleasing?

 _Yeah_ —that about sums him up.

He’s _very_ aesthetically pleasing.

From his hair slicked back, dark eyes, thick lashes and full lips, right down to his broad shoulders and strong hands. His clothes are immaculately fitted, flawlessly clinging to the long lines of him.

He looks the very image of the perfect man and if Jihoon was the kind of guy to have some sort of list then he could cross off 'wildly and unexpectedly aroused while trapped in a room waiting for impending torture and death.'

Jihoon realises he’s staring— _probably very obviously_ —at the rather heart-stopping way the man fills out a pair of trousers. So, he takes a deep breath, shoves all of those thoughts into a box in the back of his mind and slams the lid down hard.

The man grabs a sturdy metal chair and takes a seat in front of Jihoon, then leans back to look at him evenly.

Jihoon doesn’t flush under the weight of his gaze because generally his skin doesn’t do that, but the back of his neck prickles; he’s feeling distinctly unsettled.

"I apologise for the way you’ve been treated today,” The man starts, gaze unwavering. His voice is even, too, but there's something about his posture that sets alarm bells somewhere within Jihoon's mind. “Some of my employees can be a little—over-zealous—when it comes to protecting my interests."

 _Employees_?—Jihoon thinks, slightly dizzy with the possibilities.

_What the fuck._

Who _is_ this guy?

Who owns a bank? Who employees highly armed guards in suits, has his own personal interrogator and a torture chamber in his basement?

The guy has even got a fucking origami flower in his lapel that appears to fashioned out of a $1000 bill!

Who has this kind of _power_?

Jihoon tries to swallow. It's difficult, considering all the moisture in his mouth has fucked off elsewhere.

It's not the first time that Jihoon has had to deal with the Mafia, especially since his line of work tends to cross with theirs when it comes to certain criminal interests. But this is the first time Jihoon has come face to face with an honest to God— _Mob boss._

The man tips his head sideways. “The vault you were attempting to clear out, only had two million dollars in it. Did you know that?”

Jihoon doesn't answer, since, well, since his mouth seems to have stopped working completely. But also because it seems the question is completely rhetorical.

“That’s not a lot of money to split between five guys.” The man continues, jerking his chin up. “Roughly works out to about $400,00 dollars each. Some people call that—walking around money.”

Despite the rapidly swelling left eye, Jihoon attempts his best glower.

“And some people can’t afford to walk around with thousand-dollar origami flowers tucked in their lapels.” He spits back.

The Mob boss blinks at him, then glances down at his origami flower, then frowns at it like he forgot it was even _there_.

He plucks it out of his lapel and twirls the stem between his fingers. “Out if interest—what grand plans did you have with your cut? Hmm? Any pipe dreams? A down-payment on a house, a sports car or maybe splash out on some tropical island getaway.”

Jihoon shrugs modestly. “I was going to invest it.” He says, because honesty is the best default.

There’s the hint of a smile at the corner of the man’s mouth. “A wise choice. Saving it for a rainy day—I like your thinking. I’m an investor myself.” He says as he rises to his feet.

He paces around Jihoon, who wishes he wouldn’t. It’s making him dizzy enough as it is.

“Well—that’s all I needed to know. I think our business is concluded here.” The Mob boss says quietly.

Jihoon flinches as the man grabs a switch-blade off the table, making a rusty sound as he slides it open.

Jihoon permits himself the luxury of closing his eyes and tenses, bracing for impact, for the sharp slice of pain—but there’s just a minute tightening of the rope around his wrists, before they loosen completely.

“You’re free to go.” The Mob Boss says, re-sheathing the switch-blade and dropping it back on the table.

There are literally a dozen things Jihoon was expecting to hear. That definitely was not on the list. It throws his world view into a slight lurch, but he recovers with aplomb.

“ _What_?” Jihoon gasps.

Ok, he’s still a little floored apparently.

“ _I said_ —you’re free to go.” The man repeats, favouring Jihoon with a smile. 

Surprisingly, the man takes a step back and only jerks his head sharply. Jihoon presumes that means he is to get up and follow.

He does, but on very shaky legs.

There are two men standing guard outside the room; Crazy, who looks sullen at having his fun cut short, and one seriously tall dude, who appears just as baffled as Jihoon is about this sudden turn of events.

Both the men are armed, so Jihoon doesn’t make any attempts at escape.

It’s doesn’t appear to be necessary though, as he’s led through corridors upon corridors, through seemingly unending stairways that grow plusher and more welcoming as they progress.

To the bits of the building meant for polite company, Jihoon supposes.

Finally, they reach a large set of wooden doors, plant pots positioned at either side. There’s a brief, terse exchange; Tall guard leaves through a side door, then returns a few minutes later with a duffel bag and a set of keys, the latter of which he immediately hands to his boss.

Jihoon recognises them as the keys to his bike.

_What the hell…_

Anti-climax is all good and all when escaping the criminal element, but this is damned unsettling.

* * *

 

“I believe these are yours.” Seungcheol says, handing the keys over and allowing their fingers to brush together, only for a moment. He briefly treasures the strength of the guy's grasp, the rough beauty of the skin of his palms.

They're working hands, and Seungcheol always had a weakness for well-wrought instruments.

“I think you’ll find your bike is just as you left it.” Seungcheol says, after a moment's silence where they just _stare_ at each other.  

He gestures to Mingyu who pushes open the doors leading outside, where a solitary motorbike stands on its kickstands.  

“But if there have been any damages inflicted during its transportation, please let me know and I’ll be sure to settle the bill for any repairs.”

“Uhm. Ok.” The guy says, still looking at him in that half-bewildered sort of way.

He makes an aborted move towards his bike, then glances over his shoulder wearily, eyes darting quickly between Seungcheol and the two guards flanking him.

He’s clearly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“You’re just going to let me leave?” He asks, inclining his head quizzically.

“Of course.” Seungcheol responds genially.  

The man hesitates a moment longer, then jumps on the bike, turns it on and revs the engine.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Seungcheol calls out, just as the man pushes the kick-stand up.

He has his back is turned to them, but Seungcheol can see tension writ plainly in the set of his narrow shoulders. When he turns his head to look at Seungcheol, there’s an imploring look in his eyes.

Seungcheol can't help but see that as a brief, bright moment of fragility. Though perhaps not the sort it would be wise to try and take advantage of. Not now anyway.

“Don’t forget your money.” Seungcheol explains with a smirk. He clicks his fingers, and Mingyu walks over to him with the duffel bag in hand. “That’s what you came here for—isn’t it.”

The man goes silent again, long enough for Seungcheol to think he gone braindead. And then—"What the hell?”

Seungcheol doesn’t see any point in prevaricating. “Your cut of the heist--$400,000 dollars. All that hard work, surely you don’t want to leave without it?”

The look the man throws him is unreadable. But, this time, he responds right away.

“No. I suppose I don’t.” He mumbles, looking on numbly as Mingyu fastens the bag to the back of the bike.

Seungcheol steps down to street level, approaching the smaller man confidently.

“You have a good day now.” He says, patting the man on the back—then winking. “Drive safe.”

The man regards him steadily, then gulps. “Okay.”

He revs the bike again, then drives off with the expression of a man trapped in his own thoughts.

Seungcheol watches the bike zoom down the ramp and out the gates of his compound. In a way, he feels an opportunity slipping through his fingers, but in another, he feels a better one will be coming his way.

Give it a few days. He can wait.

The second the bike’s taillights disappear behind a row of trees, Soonyoung’s at his side in a flash.

“Boss, with all due respect,” He huffs, trying and failing to reign in his agitation, “But what the fuck are you doing?”

Seungcheol pats his jacket pocket for his smokes, plucks one, puts it to his lips and waits for someone to light it.

Soonyoung and Mingyu scramble to fetch a lighter.

Mingyu gets there first, and thus has the honour of getting smoke blown into his face.

“ _Investing_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Rushed chapter because WORK.  
> 2) I'm enjoying this, writing from other ships perspective. It's hard though!  
> 3) poor Jun. XD


	3. Karma police

“Not to overstress a point,” Jihoon crackles into the comm while Seokmin’s busy setting up his scope, “But I had my reservations about this job from the beginning, and nobody listened to me. I told you guys the planning was rushed, the intel is old and now—" Something that sounds like an angry wasp cuts him off.

An albatross-sized wasp.

“Come again Jihoon. I didn’t hear that last bit.” Seokmin says from his spot on the rooftop, across from the bank.

He almost regrets not being a smoker. That would have given him something to do with his hands, instead of aimlessly zooming in and out with his scope.

There’s not much for him to focus on right now, so he’s just dicking about with things, waiting for more instructions.

He’s not used to sitting back during jobs—he’s used to being on the front line, in the thick of it. The _point-man._ But they needed a premium viewpoint of the bank from certain angles to pull this job, and for that they needed a convincing actor to con his way into the building site across the road. Seokmin was touched to discover that was _him_.

He was never very good at holding cons for long, but it’s stupidly easy to fake being a government employee. Generally, all you need is a printer, a laminating machine, a suit and a bored expression and Lee Seokmin is transformed into _: Lee MinSeok_ —Inspector for the Sanitation Bureau.  

In retrospect—that was a poor name choice, but Jeonghan had been breathing down his neck to get the ID completed in time, so it’s not his finest forgery.

He just hopes nobody actually looks at it twice.

“I said—” Jihoon begins again, but the line isn’t clear. The buzzing noise intensifies, then abruptly stops. “more guards than we were expecting.” Jihoon finishes grumbling and the connection cuts.

This won’t do.

Seokmin taps his earbud lightly. “Anyone else having trouble with their earpiece?” He asks.

Two “Yes’s” later and a “KCHHHHH— _me too_ —SKKKCHHH _,”_  and Seokmin has to yank his earbud out with a strangled curse, because the squeal of feedback is becoming _unbearable_.

He tries fiddling with it, tries adjusting the frequency but there is nothing but static and the occasional peculiar chirping noise. 

Just as he’s about to throw the blasted thing off the roof and fetch another one, he notices a familiar black, red and white jacket exiting the front doors of the bank.  

Glancing through the scope, Seokmin zooms in a little, then curses under his breath.

_What the fuck?_

Seokmin trains his scope on Wonwoo’s face, disconcerted by the frown lines on his crew members brow as he moves quickly down the pavement, _away_ from the bank.

“Where’s he going?” he says to himself, as he follows Wonwoo’s path through his scope.

This—is _not_ part of the plan. The timing is all wrong.

Seokmin pulls out his watch to confirm the time, just as he hears a crackle through his earbud.

The building site is a hundred feet away from the entrance of the bank, but the crackle of gunfire from across the road is unmistakable. Seokmin whips the scope back towards the bank just in time to the see the glass door burst open and a crowd of terrified people run screaming from inside.  

He scrambles for the earpiece and jams it back into his ear, “Hannie? Minghao? Come in.”

 _“This isn’t what I meant by improvise!”_ He hears Jeonghan say, followed by a deafening burst of static.

Nobody answers him, but Seokmin can hear shouts and occasional bursts of automatic weapons fire transmitting though their microphones.

“ _Now_.” Jeonghan says, sounding hushed and slightly strained, like he’s crouched somewhere while the sound of gunfire rings in the air around him.  

“Hannie—are you guys—"

There's a sharp intake of breath and then an earful of Jeonghan swearing.

Seokmin knows from experience Jeonghan's probably taken a hit. Nothing too bad, or the pain would be ratcheting through his voice. Whatever it is it's not enough to slow him down. Jeonghan sounds angry more than anything.

Despite the urge to pack up and bolt, Seokmin doesn’t move.

It's hard to override self-preservation instincts, once they're fine-tuned. But it’s harder to leave friends behind.

So, he keeps his face glued to the scope, alternating his sights between the front door of the bank, and the side entrance to the underground parking lot.

He needs to stay sharp, to wait for the next sign from Jeonghan.

If the heist is to continue as planned, he’s supposed to remain on the rooftop until Jihoon drives out with the bags and clear a path for him if necessary. But there’s nothing but silence from his earpiece, and when he sees Jeonghan burst through the door, empty handed and clutching his bleeding shoulder—he accepts the plan has been shot to shit.

They’re retreating. Heist over.  

But Jihoon’s comm is silent, and as far as Seokmin can tell he hasn't budged from his position.

_Where the hell is he?_

* * *

 

The underground parking lot is silent as Seokmin enters, and it quickly becomes apparent _why_.

Moving low so as not to be seen, he approaches the one lighted area of the lot cautiously, where he can hear a rustle of movement and murmured conversation.

There’s a row of parked cars up ahead, and Seokmin ducks behind each one as he advances, moving as swiftly as he can without breaking cover.

When he reaches one of the support pillars, he stops, cranes his head around the corner slowly and observes.

Under the watery beam of one overhead fluorescent, stand several armed men wearing fashionable suits and little translucent coils leading from their ears down into their collars.

They’re talking in low voices, hovering over a duffle bag laid out open on the floor; Seokmin recognizes it immediately as the bag of timed explosives Jihoon was _meant_ to be using to blow out the bottom of the vault.  

Jihoon is present too, though he’s already been incapacitated, lying a few feet away—unconscious but seemingly unharmed.

“Soonie. Are you out of your _mind_? We _have_ to hand him over.” A man in a light grey suit and red tie says to the man dressed in burgundy.

Burgundy snorts and shakes his head. “That’s not what the boss would want. He’d want to know who has the balls to try and steal from him and who put them up to it. Are you going to be the one to tell him we just _handed_ over the one guy we caught? Cause I sure as hell wont.”

“So, what are you suggesting?”

Burgundy is silent for a moment, nudging Jihoon with the toe of his boot before he says, “We move him to the compound. The boss will want a _word_.”

Seokmin assesses the situation, running damage control scenarios in his head for whatever the hell _that_ might mean.

Who the fuck is ‘The Boss’ and why the fuck are they not just handing Jihoon over to the cops?

It looks like the guards have secured Jihoon’s wrists and ankles with zip ties, and Seokmin doesn’t think he’ll be able to cut him loose and drag him out of here too. At the moment the men are contained, arguing about what to do with their captive, but this could easily end in a stand-off where they capture both of them if he’s not careful.

Seokmin waits, running through several possible scenarios in his head. He files away as much information as he can about the men—names they let slip, locations. He has about five more minutes before the door leading to the stairwell bursts open and a tall guard rushes through.

“Cops have arrived. They’re going to do a sweep soon, so if we’re moving him—better do it now.”

Keeping to the shadows, Seokmin stays low and follows the small group of men as they hoist Jihoon up and dump him in the back of a parked car.  

He doesn’t have a strategy for stopping them without endangering himself and Jihoon in the process, so he does the next best thing. He waits until one of the guards is behind the wheel and has turned the engine on, before breaking into the nearest empty vehicle, hotwiring it and pursuing them.

* * *

 

He follows the car at an unobtrusive distance till it pulls into a gated compound on the outskirts of the city, then doubles back, parks a block down from his destination and pulls out his scope.  

As he studies the entrance to the compound, Seokmin begins to have his _doubts_ about his entire search and rescue plan.

The sign outside the gate reads: Choi Industries HQ, which makes Seokmin’s stomach churn unpleasantly.

Either he followed the wrong car, or it’s just a coincidence, because  _come on_. There’s no way that out of all the Bank’s in Seoul, they planned on stealing from the biggest Mob boss in the country.

If they did, then—he doesn’t even want to _begin_ thinking about the consequences here. There's a reason he avoids dealing with the Mafia if he can; he likes staying alive.

Seokmin has zero tactical options, and it’s a fact he’s all too painfully aware of. But he still has to rescue Jihoon, because if  _Jihoon_ spills—they’re all in serious danger.

He packs away his scope into its case and puts his mind in order.

He’s got knives in his boots and his Glock in a shoulder holster. He’s got a shoddy ID in his back pocket that might help him pass the guards, but it won’t hold up against a proper inspection. He doesn’t know the layout of the building, but from what he can see it’s lightly guarded.

He grabs his case, fastens the ID to a lanyard around his neck and steps out of the car.

An idea is clicking together in his brain.

It’s stupid, risky and probably _suicidal_ —but he’s Lee Minseok dammit, and he’s going to inspect some pipes.

* * *

 

There are two guards at the entry to the compound and one in the parking lot. Nothing that Seokmin wouldn’t have expected. They’re not standing guard so much as smoking and shooting the shit, and Seokmin plasters a serious face on as he steps up to the gate and flashes the first guard a card.

“I’m from the sanitation bureau. Piping inspection.”

He passes muster.

The first guard ignores him completely, entirely focused on getting his lighter to spark, and the second guard doesn’t even look at his shoddy ID twice.

Shit, this must really be the wrong place.

Never mind, Seokmin will check it – even if they don’t have Jihoon here, he needs to be sure.

Once inside the building, Seokmin takes a deep breath and approaches the reception desk where a bored looking woman sits at attendance.

“Good morning—er—I mean afternoon.” He amends quickly, glancing at the clock situated behind her. “I’m from the sanitation Bureau.”

The receptionist frowns up at him from behind her glasses. “Okay. _And_?”

Oh—shit.

He didn’t think this far ahead.

He didn’t think he’s pass the _gate_.

“ _And_ …I’ll—need to see the building plans. For inspection purposes.” He elaborates at whim, hoping a firm tone will garner compliance.

“Oh. Okay—I think I have a copy out back.” She pauses, then turns to regard him quizzically. “I’m sure we had an inspection not that long ago, come to think of it.”

Seokmin gives her a tight smile. “Not according to _my_ records.”

The woman looks suitably chastised and scurries out to fetch the plans.

She comes back a few minutes later with a folder, that she slaps down on the desk. “That’s all I could find—if it’s not what you need, I can call my boss—”

“No, that won’t be necessary.” Seokmin interjects quickly, snatching the folder up. “This will do fine. I just need to-”

Just then, a door at the side pushes open and a man enters the room.

Seokmin stiffens when he recognises him as one of the guards from the bank—the tall one.

_So, this is the right place after all._

The man moves with a taut energy as he steps around the reception desk to grab a set of keys and a large, black duffel bag. There's a moment when he stops to murmur something to receptionist and looks around the room. He nearly sees Dokyeom, but Dokyeom ducks behind his folder and waits the moment out.

Once the man leaves, Seokmin releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

He moves to stand at the side and busies himself studying the map, trying to figure out where they’d hold Jihoon. If they have him here at all, that is.

They’d need a room, not necessarily anywhere too large. The important thing is to be somewhere out of the way, discreet—soundproof.

According to the blueprints, there’s a maintenance chamber in the basement. Seokmin thinks he’ll start from there.

* * *

 

He knows he’s heading in the right direction when he passes a few men on the stairs brandishing assault rifles.

They don’t stop him—or ask what the hell he’s doing wondering about on his own. If anything—they’re really fucking helpful; pointing out directions and making way for him on the stairs.

One of them even _holds_ the door open for him.

Sloppy, indeed.

 _Polite_ , but sloppy.

He’s been in McDonald’s restaurants with better security than this.

He follows the map down several flights of stairs until he reaches a long, narrow corridor at the bottom level, at the end of which he finds an empty room.

It’s not _entirely_ empty.

There are two chairs inside, some frayed rope and a tray of grizzly looking surgical instruments glinting dangerously under the sterile white light.

On further inspection, they are thankfully all clean, which just leaves him more questions than answers.

_Where is Jihoon?_

_Have they moved him already?_

_Maybe he gave them the information they wanted after all._

“Who the hell are you?” A voice calls out, breaking him out of his musing.

Seokmin snaps his head up to see a man blocking the doorway, and identifies him as another one of the guards from the bank— _Soonie_? _Soonyoungie_?

“Oh— _hello_. I’m with the sanitation bureau. Here to inspect the..uhm—the pipes.” Seokmin says, gesturing to the pipeless room.

Hopefully this guy isn’t _that_ observant.

“There are no pipes in here.” The man says slowly, giving him a look that is _penetrating_.

_Crap baskets._

“Precisely. There should be. There is a significant lack of piping in here, which is very concerning. There should be pipes, and yet there are none. Where have all the good pipes gone, and where are all the pipes.” Seokmin just manages to stop himself from breaking into song. He coughs to clear his throat. “I’ll have to alert my superiors to your missing pipes. They won’t be pleased.”

The man regards him with slit eyed suspicion—Seokmin attempts to maintain a neutral look.

“You got some ID?” The man asks, drifting towards him like he has all the time in the world

“Off course.” Seokmin says, pulling the official looking lanyard around his neck for the man to inspect.

Seokmin gives the man a quick once over as he leans forward cautiously, eyes flicking between Seokmin’s face and Minseok’s ID.

Up close, he realizes the guy is around his age and is also incredibly good-looking. He feels a little sick at the thought of actually having to kill him to escape.

The man straightens a bit, quirking an eyebrow at him with a playful hint of rebuke. “That picture looks like it was taken a few weeks ago. You’ve got the same hairstyle—even wearing the same suit.” He says, aiming a vicious smile at Seokmin that sends his brain into strict oh, shit mode.

“Well,” Seokmin laughs, pitching the fakest smile he has. “There have been budget cuts in the Sanitation Bureau. I can only afford one suit per year.”

The man makes an amused noise at that. Seokmin very carefully doesn't twitch.

“Sanitation Bureau huh? We’ll see about that--” The man makes an aborted movement for his radio—but Seokmin swings his briefcase and easily dispenses with the guard; one hard whack to the temple is all that’s required to take him down.

Seokmin uses the man’s bootlaces to tie him up and gags him with his own socks, before ridding him of his phone, wallet and gun.

He steals his shoes too—cause he _feels_ like it, and leaves before anyone else catches up with him.

* * *

 

Mingyu’s made a career out of being less than honest with people. From his family, to his landlord to the nice old lady who lives across the hall that bakes him pies because she thinks he’s a _policeman_.

But he’s never, _ever_ lied to Seungcheol.

He’s never had a _reason_ to before either.

Seungcheol has always been like a terrifying, cooler older brother to Mingyu; the one that tells you not to talk or approach him in the school canteen, but will give you a ride home and help you with your maths homework later.

Mingyu’s made it a point to be completely transparent with him from the beginning, from the day Seungcheol plucked him from the streets as a kid and elevated him to the life he has now.

You generally don’t lie to people who house, clothe and feed you when they could have easily broken every one of your fingers for trying to swipe their Rolex.  

Lying about Wonwoo wasn’t even a conscious decision—it was _instinct_.

When Seungcheol asked him if he knew the thief he spoke to in the queue, Mingyu found himself bending the truth without even thinking about it.

He can’t even explain _why_ he did it. There’s no rhyme or reason for that sudden lapse in loyalty, because he met Wonwoo less than a day ago, and he’s known Seungcheol practically his entire life.

Maybe it’s because he knows, in horrifying, intimate detail, what Seungcheol _does_ to people who try and take from him.

Well—he _thought_ he knew.

Seungcheol’s odd generous streak is leaving him a little perplexed right now.

Watching the pint-sized thief drive off with $400,000 and his life intact was an unexpected turn of events that’s making Mingyu reassess his privately held opinion of his boss.

Perhaps Choi Seungcheol isn’t a terrifying, ruthless motherfucker after all?

“I hope he gets home okay. He seemed pretty bruised and shaken when he got on the bike. I hope he doesn’t have concussion or something. Because he definitely shouldn’t be riding that bike if he has a concussion. Oh no—what if he falls off Mingyu? What if he falls off the bike because he has a concussion?” Seungcheol asks, frown lines marring his face.

Mingyu’s steps falter alongside Seungcheol’s as he realises that wasn’t said _sarcastically_.

Seungcheol’s worry is very genuine indeed.

“Uh—I’m sure he’s fine sir.” Mingyu offers, taking advantage of Seungcheol’s turned back to mouth  _What the fuck_  at Seungkwan.

Seungkwan offers him an equally baffled expression in return.

“I’m sure he’s an experienced biker and can withstand a knock or two.” Mingyu adds, placatingly.

He expects Seungcheol to say something offhand and misleading. So of course he’s thrown for a loop when Seungcheol sighs and says: “Yeah, you’re probably right. I shouldn’t worry. But the minute he comes back—I want you to notify me. I don’t care if I’m in a meeting, I want him sent straight to my office.”

“Uh, what? Comes back?” Mingyu echoes, sharing a secretive glance with Seungkwan behind Seungcheol’s back. “What makes you think he’ll be back, Sir?”

Seungcheol gives him one of those unsettling knowing smiles as he pushes open the door of the interrogation room. “Gyu—you should have learned by now, I always—" He stops mid-sentence, backing out of the room, brows arched in surprise.

The noise coming from the interrogation room has Mingyu’s face snapping to the side, because it sounds like someone’s in physical pain.

He cranes his head around the frame and offers his own surprised eyebrows to the sight that greets him: Soonyoung on the floor, wriggling around with his hands and ankles tied, a sock stuffed in his mouth.

The stunned silence holding the room stretches out unbroken until Seungcheol crosses his arms and says, “ _Soonyoung_ —what are you doing?”

“I think he’s practicing boss.” Mingyu hazards, stepping around Soonyoung’s wriggling form on the floor. “He does that sometimes. Asks us to tie him up, so he can practice _escaping_. Says it keep him on his _toes_.”

“Huh.” Seungcheol nods, approving. “Keep up the good work—I guess.”

Soonyoung eyeballs them all as he thrashes angrily on the floor.

Seungkwan steps into the room next and leans down to pull the sock from Soonyoung’s mouth.

“No, no—don’t _help_ him.” Seungcheol tsks, raising a hand to stop him. “He didn’t go to all that effort of tying himself up for nothing. You heard Mingyu, he wants to _practice_.”

Soonyoung groans protest through the gag and Seungkwan shrugs affably, then steps back to watch.

Mingyu's tempted to ask how exactly Soonyoung managed to tie himself up so well. But this might be one of those times where he'll just go with it and ask for clarification later.

They all stand there, for the better part of ten minutes, watching and commentating and offering advice as Soonyoung rolls back and forth on the concrete.

Mingyu’s rather enjoying watching him squirm like an eel, until Soonyoung manages to spit the sock free.

“I’m—not—practicing—you assholes.” Soonyoung gasps breathlessly. “Some guy from the sanitation bureau knocked me the fuck out and tied me up!”

Seungcheol directs a sceptical brow in Mingyu’s direction, looking for confirmation. 

Mingyu shakes his head lightly to dispel his concern. “Sometimes Soonie likes to role-play too. He builds up these elaborate fantasies in his head to go along with his ‘escape plan’.”

Soonyoung can't turn his head round far enough to glare at him, so he settles for a frustrated sigh. “It’s not a role-play! Would you please— _please_ untie me!”

Mingyu frowns. He’s known Soonyoung for a long time now—and he’s never heard him sound so haggard. Not to mention, he’s never heard him use the word _please_ before either.

“Uh—” Seungkwan pipes in, raising a hand. “Is it possible that he’s not role-playing? And that there really _was_ an inspector from the sanitation bureau here—cause I’m pretty sure the receptionist mentioned a visit to me when I spoke to her upstairs.”

At that unwelcome revelation, Mingyu scrambles to grab a penknife and cut the laces binding Soonyoung’s hands and feet.

He helps Soonyoung climb to his feet, and the man sways a little in front of them as he rights himself. The left side of his cheek is slightly bruised, and he has a split lip, but he looks all right other than that.

“Sorry dude,” Mingyu chuckles sheepishly, “But you gotta admit, you do ask me to tie you up more often than not. What was I _supposed_ to think?”

Soonyoung grumbles something inflammatory under his breathing, sounding like he tried to deny that and failed.

“What _happened_?” The careful interest in Seungcheol’s tone burns like an accusation, as is the stare he directs at Mingyu; incisive, full of coiled motion.

“I came down here to clean up, and I found this _guy_ snooping about. He flashed this shitty looking ID at me and started waxing lyrical about pipes—or the lack of them or something. I reached for my radio, to check out his story, and the next thing I know—he _swings_ this heavy ass briefcase at me and knocks me out.” His eyes flick wearily back and forth between everyone as he finishes, “Wait—where are my _shoes_?”

“What did he look like?” says Seungcheol, quiet frustration weighing his voice.

“He was a little taller than me, and broader too. Light brown hair, a tiny mole on his cheek. Pretty hot actually.” Soonyoung makes one of those little noises in his throat like he's thinking something obscene. “I’d let him tie me up again if I’m being honest.”

Seungkwan rolls his eyes. “Of course _you’d_ find the guy who knocked you out and tied you up attractive.”

Soonyoung sputters something unintelligible, before throwing his hands up into the air. “What? Am I not allowed to have preferences?!”

Mingyu holds a hand up to silence them both. “We didn’t pass anyone on the way down here. Where did he go?”

“Can’t recall,” Soonyoung huffs, “on account of being _unconscious_.”

“Never mind where he went. The question is, how the fuck did he get down here?” Seungcheol says, thick with contempt.

Mingyu stiffens when he realises the question was directed at _him_ and prepares to explode because – hello, how the fuck’s he supposed to know?

He’s only got one pair of eyes, and he was with Seungcheol the whole time—didn’t see anyone suspicious since he got here.

Oh, wait.

“I—I don’t know. I’ll look into it.” Mingyu says hurriedly, trying to recall the face of the man he saw loitering at the reception desk earlier and whether it matched Soonyoung’s vague description.

“My gun is missing.” Soonyoung interrupts, patting down his jacket, before his voice increases in pitch. “And my wallet. And my _phone_. He’s got my phone boss—my _phone_.”

“ _Calm down.”_ Seungcheol says evenly, cutting Soonyoung’s panicky fit short.

“But I’ve got contacts on that phone, Boss.  _Sensitive information_.” Soonyoung says, voice down to a normal level.

“Why would an inspector from the sanitation Bureau steal from you though?” Seungkwan says, looking unbearably philosophical.

“Because it’s a hard job Seungkwan.” Mingyu offers seriously. “A government employee’s wage isn’t substantial, so he probably needs to make ends meet by stealing on the side.”

“HE WASN’T AN INSPECTOR FOR THE SANITATION BUREAU YOU FUCKING IDIOTS!” comes Seungcheol’s voice next, booming and furious as it bounces off the walls of the empty room.

He grabs the table nearby and flings it across the room, sending surgical instruments flying.

Mingyu doesn’t know what to expect from the wild look on Seungcheol’s face—lips twisted into a snarl and eyes flashing dark with rage—but his muddled brain is still surprised when Seungcheol grabs him by the shirtfront and drives him backwards. Mingyu stumbles a little, startled by the violence of the motion, and then grunts as his back slams painfully into the wall. 

He expects an actual blow any second now, but it doesn’t come.

Seungcheol’s expression has turned controlled all of the sudden, though he holds Mingyu's gaze, eyes still burning with fury.

“Find out who it was and take care of them.” Seungcheol says, sounding far too calm for Mingyu's peace of mind.

“Y-yes sir.” Mingyu swallows hard and nods, because he knows better than to argue with the desperate glint in Seungcheol’s eyes.

Seungcheol stares at him for a long moment, expressionless, before letting him go, walking out of the room and striding down the corridor.

Mingyu remains motionless until he can no longer hear the sound of Seungcheol’s departing footsteps, before stepping away from the wall and straightening himself out.

“Gyu?” Soonyoung asks softly. He takes a cautious step towards him and sets a questioning hand on his arm. “You alright?”

Mingyu offers him a brave smile and keeps his mouth shut.

No.

On second reflection, lying to Seungcheol about Wonwoo was _definitely_ the right thing to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I hope this explains where DK disappeared too. He's kicking ass secretly. Or, swinging briefcases.  
> 2) I hope the plot isn't too convoluted to follow. Everyone's parts converge and that's hard to write clearly.  
> 3) There will be more tying up of Soonyoung to come. :)  
> 4) I know Cheollie is coming across like a bit of a dick, but I need him to now.


	4. It's a setup

Jeonghan feels pain.

Like claws, like a poker from the fire, red hot spearing pain.

“Stop, stop, _please_!“

There’s a face hovering above him. Blurry, too close—but Jeonghan can tell it’s a man, and his mouth is moving.

“Ssh. Almost done. You’re okay.” He says.

Pretty mouth. Pretty eyelashes, light and feathery, soft-looking.

Then—more pain. It smells of iodine, of chemicals, sterile and unnatural. Hospital smells, and something else, something sticky and cloying. Blood.

 _“Stop_.”

“You’re okay.”

* * *

 

Jeonghan wakes with a start. Sudden clarity, like falling out of a dream.

He spends a confused couple of minutes wondering _why_ exactly there’s a crucifix hanging on the wall across from his bed. He thinks he vaguely remembers seeing an angel standing over him and healing him with his touch, which seems a little far-fetched—but no, there was definitely some sort of ethereal being involved, with gentle hands that had taken away his pain.

Which still doesn’t explain the wooden crucifix on his bedroom wall.

 _His_ bedroom? No—not his. He doesn’t recognize this place at all.

 _Who’s_ then?

How could he lose track of himself like this? 

 _Focus._  

There's a hazy, half-formed memory of running away from the bank, and after that—did he fall asleep in a church?

He must _still_ be on the church grounds somehow.

That at least explains the crucifix and the celibate décor of the room.

 _Get up_ , he orders himself, as though thinking the words might make it so.  _Get up, Get up –_ He tries to lever himself upright, pushes the thin, damp sheet away and sways towards the side of the bed.

It’s then that he becomes aware of two things in rapid succession. One, he’s completely naked under the bedsheets, and two, one of his wrists is handcuffed to the bedpost. Which is  _never_  a good start to any day.

Christ, what’s he got himself into?

Giving up on trying to do anything, Jeonghan falls back on the bed and lets his uncuffed arm swing back heavy against his stomach. His shoulder aches dully.

 

He turns his attention to the rest of the room. No furniture apart from the bed, a small bookshelf and a single wooden chair positioned nearby. There’s a jug of water sitting on the shelf, an empty upturned glass next to it.  

The light in the room is dull and murky. He’s got no idea what time it is.

“Ah—you’re awake.” A voice breaks the silence.

Jeonghan turns is head to the door to find—not the turnip-shaped, rosary-fondling elderly priest he was expecting—but a young man, standing just inside the door.

“How are you feeling?” The man says, coming toward him. He’s tall, handsome and exquisitely dressed; wearing a close-fitting and beautifully tailored black suit that clings in all the right places.

 _Very nice_ , Jeonghan thinks numbly, because he can’t stop himself noticing these details even whilst he’s numb with pain and has one wrist cuffed to a bed. It’s bad enough that the job was a failure, but it’s a wound to his professional pride to be apprehended—by a _priest_.

A hot priest.

“Who the fuck are you?” Jeonghan asks, having finally recovered his voice and the ability to blink.

“Watch your language.” The man retorts, abandoning his earlier magnanimous stance.

“Oh, sorry.” Jeonghan winces sheepishly. Until he realises, no, he really shouldn’t be apologetic to the man who’s _stolen his clothes_. He clears his throat and forces out the best smile he can manage, given the circumstances, “Who are you? How—how did I get here?”

The man positions the wooden chair beside Jeonghan’s bed, then leans back against it, crossing his arms over his chest. There is disapproval etched in every line of his face, in the tightness of his shoulders, in the quiet scowl curling the corners of his mouth.

“I’m Hong Jisoo. I was closing up for the day, when I found you sleeping on one of the benches. I had initially thought you were one of our homeless parishioners, because they often seek refuge here, but then I noticed you had actually passed out—from blood loss I imagine. So, I carried you here, to my home, because it’s a darn site more comfortable than a wooden bench I think.”

And oh, that is  _not_  something Jeonghan needed to picture. This guy _carrying him to bed_ like some sort of consumptive heroine.

He is mortified at the thought—and also, confusingly and simultaneously, warmed by it. The rising blush leaves him lightheaded.

Praying Jisoo doesn't notice, or at least mistakes the colour in his cheeks for a symptom of fever, Jeonghan asks, "How long was I out?"

"Four hours." Jisoo replies, without missing a beat. He doesn't even check his watch before answering. He must have been marking the time closely indeed.

“Ah—crap.” Jeonghan groans. He’s missed the rendezvous—his crew will be worried.

Jisoo’s voice takes a sudden hard turn. “You don’t seem particularly pleased—considering I saved your life.”

“Well—I’ll be sure to let Jesus know how great you are when I meet him at the pearly gates.” Jeonghan offers and if he adds a little sarcastic emphasis to the sentence that's perfectly understandable.

Jisoo’s eyebrows go up. “It’s St Peter that greets you at the Pearly gates, _actually_. If you’re going to be blasphemous—at least get it right.”

Jeonghan look down at himself, where the bed sheet has drifted indecently low on his torso. “Why am I naked?”

“Because I needed to extract the bullet from your shoulder and your clothing was getting in the way.” Jisoo explains, like it’s all perfectly sensible.

“Even my boxers?” Jeonghan says, quirking a brow, ignoring how that sounds scandalous and awful said out loud. “Last I checked—my boxers were on my crotch, and nowhere near my shoulders.”

Jisoo makes a face that suggests he doesn’t appreciate this _particular_ line of questioning.  

“You had a bullet wound—I did what I had to.” He huffs, a reluctant blush gracing the bridge of his nose. Which doesn't _really_ answer the question, but Jeonghan is going to pretend that it did.

“And the handcuffs?” Jeonghan asks next, because—he can’t ignore that there's a certain level of sub-textual innuendo about the whole scene.

Jisoo sets his teeth into his lower lip, just a little, like he’s uncertain or maybe worried. “A necessary precaution. I had no idea who you were and—you were _armed_.”

“Where is my gun now?” Jeonghan asks, which brings a dimpled smile to Jisoo’s face.

“Oh, don’t you worry about it. I’ve stored it somewhere safe. It’s wrapped inside a cloth, inside a box—at the bottom of a lake.”

Jeonghan glares at the last part of that sentence, because taking his gun is one thing, tossing it into the lake—that’s just _overkill_.

“Shit dude, that was my favourite gun.”

Jisoo shoots him an unimpressed look. “ _Language_.”

Jeonghan sighs, thumping his head against the pillow. “Disposing of my weapon really wasn’t necessary. I’m not dangerous. I’m a ….a cop, actually.”

“Oh, _really_?” Jisoo lets out an unflattering snort. He leans into Jeonghan's face, not shying beneath the defensive glint in Jeonghan's stare. “If that’s the case—I’ll call them now, shall I? Tell them to come pick you up.”

“No— _don’t_.” Jeonghan interrupts, sharply enough to catch Jisoo’s attention. He was _trying_ to sound authoritative, but he thinks he’s missed by a mile and hit 'scared' and 'confused' on the way.

His gaze breaks away and lands on the wall behind Jisoo. Even though he is no longer looking directly into Jisoo's face, he sees the man’s expression ease fractionally, and there is the barest slouch in posture.

Jeonghan doesn't know what to make of it or him, so he bites his tongue to keep from speaking—to avoid offering unwanted excuses and explanations.

After a while, Jisoo stretches his long legs out, boots just off the edge of the bed.

“So—how did you get injured?” He asks next, sounding cautiously intrigued.

Injured. Right. Jeonghan turns his head to look at his shoulder, mostly hidden under stark white gauze. He tries to peek under the dressing and hisses as it tugs in his skin.

“Hurts,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, that happens sometimes when you get shot,” Jisoo says, a tad too amused for Jeonghan’s peace of mind. He stares at him, waiting for Jeonghan to expand.

“I suppose anything I say will be protected by _confessional privilege_.” Jeonghan says, in a grudgingly diplomatic tone of voice.

Jisoo nods slowly, agreeably, “Yes, it _would_ be—”

“I tried to rob a bank.” Jeonghan admits at length.

“— _If_ I were a priest.” Jisoo continues with a smirk. “As it is, I’m just the Sunday school teacher. And I occasionally play the organ when Mrs Chan’s arthritis is playing up.”

Jeonghan can feel his eyebrows lifting in shock. “Dammit!”

“Language!” Jisoo tuts, but his eyes are bright, amused.

They fall into another silence where neither of them says anything for a while.

Jeonghan is starting to wish for something to dull the pain when suddenly Jisoo’s rising from his chair and moving over to the bookshelf.

“They haven’t caught anyone.” Jisoo announces, and Jeonghan hears the clinking of a glass, shortly followed by the sound of pouring water.   

“Huh?”

“From your heist crew.” Jisoo explains, glancing over his shoulder. “There was a short segment in the evening news about the robbery. The correspondent said nobody had been apprehended yet, but the authorities were _investigating_.”

“Oh—good.” Jeonghan nods, relieved.

At least the others got out okay, even if he didn’t. And if they stick to the contingency plan, they’ll all meet by the docks and lay low till this whole thing blows over.

“Think you can manages these?” Jisoo says, turning to face him.

There’s a small plastic pill bottle in his hand, that he shakes enticingly in Jeonghan’s direction.

Jeonghan can’t help but crack a smile, “You read my mind.”

He carefully eases himself to a sit, and promptly feels a hundred years old. Holding his hand open, he watches as Jisoo uncaps the bottle and dispenses two red and white pills into his palm.  

“So, when are the cops coming to take me away?” He inquires, as casually as he can manage.

Jisoo freezes in the process of setting the glass of water on the bedside table.

“I—uhm—I haven’t notified them.” He mumbles solemnly, offering Jeonghan a small, self-deprecating smile. He looks like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Despite his better judgment, Jeonghan’s leaning toward charmed. “ _Really_. And why not? Harbouring fugitives is some serious sinful business, you know.”

“I’ve been busy.” Jisoo says simply, gaze averted as he scrubs a hand through his dark blond hair. “Besides, I didn’t just waste my energy saving your life for the mafia to have a man shank you in the prison showers, or whatever they do to people who try and steal from them. Terribly cranky lot, those banking magnates.” He says quietly. It's strangely serious, firm, like it matters somehow.

“Shank me in the— _what_?” Jeonghan says, tossing back the pills. He swallows awkwardly, the pills getting stuck in his throat, and it takes two cups of water and some gentle back-pounding to get him sorted.

“What do you mean _Mafia_? Who said anything about the Mafia.” He croaks when he can breathe again.

Jisoo’s frowning now, clearly puzzled by Jeonghan’s reaction. “You do realise _who’s_ bank you attempted to steal from—don’t you? I mean—I don’t move in the same circles as you, but even _I_ knew that bank was part of the Choi conglomerate, certainly any sane person would _avoid_ stealing from.”

“Choi— _conglomerate_?” Jeonghan blinks, wondering if he should actively object to being called insane.

“Oh, you know, that dreadful man—Choi _something or other_. Paints himself to be some sort of charitable businessman, but half the city knows what he deals in—and the other half are too scared to do anything about it. He’s offered to donate to the church on occasion—but we’ve never accepted. _Seungcheol_ —that’s his name. Choi Seungcheol.” Jisoo finishes at last.

Which brings all of Jeonghan’s thoughts to a shuddering, destructive halt and immediately replaces them with new thoughts, terrible, terrible thoughts that leave all the air punched out of him.

“Oh, shit!” Jeonghan hisses. Adrenaline is spiking through his veins, making his heart pound and his palms sweat. This is bad. This is very, _very_ bad. “Shit—shit—shit—shit.”

“Honestly, the mouth on you!” Jisoo admonishes.

Jeonghan laughs even though he’s pretty sure nothing will ever be funny again.

“God, I’m sorry—but—,” Jeonghan says, managing to infuse his voice with a calm he doesn't feel.

He scrubs at his face with his free hand and considers the odds: that of all the banks in Seoul he planned a heist on the one owned by the Mafia; that they’ll be able to use the CCTV footage to identify him and his crew; that he’ll be dead before he’s thirty just like his mother always said he would.

Jeonghan fights back the edge of panic. He went into this with only half the information he usually has on a job, but he’d been assured by the ‘nameless client’ that heist would be a milk run; in and out with zero casualties.

That was a big fucking lie because now the Mafia are involved, and the revelation sends a trickle of fear along his skin.

He should have _seen_ this coming.

He should have _known_ there was something odd about the intel he was given.

He should have done his own research—

No.

He should have _never_ have accepted this job in the first place and then dragged his entire crew in with him.

Jeonghan turns his face into the pillow so Jisoo doesn’t have to hear him yelling “ _FUCKKKKKKK_!”

When he turns back around again Jisoo, bizarrely, seems to have the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Yes, well—clearly you have a lot of thinking to do.” Jisoo smiles, patently unsympathetic, “I’ll let you get some rest.”

“No—no.” Jeonghan splutters, trying to lever himself up off the bed. “You have to uncuff me—I need to go! I need to warn my crew!”

“No.” Jisoo shakes his head, not hearing or perhaps ignoring the desperation in Jeonghan’s voice.

He's nearer now, right beside the bed, and risks placing a hand on Jeonghan’s naked chest, pushing him down again firmly, but gently. “What you need is to _rest_. You’re no good to anyone in your current state.”

Jeonghan wants to argue some more, but honestly—he’s a little _stunned_. He doesn’t know whether to feel grateful or wary or turned on or what, so he just stares at Jisoo, baffled both by his unnatural kindness and his relaxed attitude at having a criminal in his home.

Jeonghan let out a sigh and it loosens something in him, makes the knot of dread and doubt and frustration curl into something smaller, more manageable, even as Jisoo tugs at the gauze over his shoulder and makes him hiss.  

“Get some sleep—and I’ll be back soon to change your dressing.” Jisoo says again, calm as anything as his nimble strong fingers curl around the bed sheet and bring it up over Jeonghan’s shoulders.

His hands are gentle, his eyes concerned, and Jeonghan can't deny his own interest in what those hands can do under different circumstances, how those eyes could drink him in if he allowed it.

* * *

 

 _This is the dumbest spot to rendezvous_ —Wonwoo thinks, as he continues to study his surroundings. An abandoned warehouse in the middle of nowhere.

But it’s the location Jeonghan had scoped out for them to lay low following the heist, whether or not things go according to plan, so Wonwoo jumps the fence and enters.

He kicks a side door open, gun pointed up, then down. There is already a round chambered, Wonwoo knows, as he silently moves out of range of anyone who might be hiding behind the door with a gun.

But there’s nobody here yet.

The place is cold and empty, minimally furnished and his footsteps echo softly as he steps inside. 

It reeks of dust and disuse, and the foul stench blossoms and tickles his nose the further he wanders in; hardly suitable for housing five guys after a heist.

Wonwoo smirks when he notices a faint light coming from the office at the top, overlooking the whole warehouse.

Guess somebody _did_ make it here before him.

He’s halfway up the metal staircase when his boot catches on a wire stretched low across a step.

He hears a faint ‘click’ above him, has a second to think—‘Shit’—and then the office explodes.

It's too loud and too close, windows blowing outward, glass slicing through the air.

Wonwoo gets his arm over his head but he’s blown backwards by the force of it anyway. All he can do is clench his eyes shut and grit his teeth. Live in that roar of noise and wonder if it's ever going to stop.

When he comes to, he’s slumped on his back on the ground and he feels like he's been given a massive electric shock. He's too hot and too tight, skin twitching, internal organs spasming while his head's buzzes insanely. His cheek is wet and he can smell copper, can feel the trail of liquid past his neck and that suggests it's blood from his ear rather than anywhere else.

Oh—fuck.

Was that a _bomb_?

Did someone plant a bomb at their rendezvous location?

This just keeps getting from bad to worse, and then from worse to worst, and then they really need to make up new terminology for the psycho bullshit situations Jeonghan’s plans result in.

Distantly, Wonwoo can make out the crackle of flames, feels the heat of them on his body. He lifts his head with some effort to glance at his surroundings, and finds the office above has been totally devastated by the explosion.  

There’s black smoke rising in the air, flames licking the doorways and windows and quickly spreading to the rest of the warehouse. Above him, the ceiling shakes and groans, light fixtures crashing down in a shower of sparks and metal clangs.

He struggles to sit up, his whole body aching. There’s broken glass digging through the sleeve of his jacket and into his arm. The leather tears and he barely gets a hand up to brace himself on the wall.

The second he straightens up, the world briefly goes grey, cold sweat collecting everywhere.

Fuck—no. He doesn't have time to pass out. He is not being buried alive inside some shitty warehouse building by the docks.

Wonwoo feels like a walking bruise, breathing hard and wincing with every step—tender everywhere. But he forces himself to stumble towards the door he came in through.

It takes a ridiculous amount of energy, but he bursts out into the alley, into the light, the building cracking and listing behind him.

* * *

 

It's only four o'clock when Jun arrives at the docks, but the sky's already a listless miserable grey.

He rolls down his window, then promptly rolls it back up again because the docks smell like ass. Always have, always will.

As they drive closer, Jun can see several dozen people loitering outside the main entrance, craning their necks to get a look at _something_ ; dock workers he assumes, from their clothing.

Then he realises what they’re all gathered around and staring at. In the distance there’s a building on fire—a large warehouse in fact—with thick, black smoke billowing from the giant gaping hole in the roof.

“Holy shit. What’s going on here?” He gasps, applying the breaks gently.

There are a few fire trucks parked around the building, trying to douse out the flames and there’s a police cordon erected up ahead, redirecting trucks away from the site.

The car has almost come to a complete stop when Jun feels the muzzle of the gun poke him in the neck again.

“Turn around and keep driving.”

Jun hates how quickly he obeys the command. Feet moving almost without his consent. The car jerks and shudders as he quickly shifts gears and turns.

“I’m guessing that burnt out warehouse was where you were headed, huh?” Jun asks, with a sharp nod back towards the building. “Looks like someone decided to leave you a little _welcoming_ gift. Maybe even one of your own crew, for instance.”

The man ignores the leading edge to that statement, but judging by his taut, unhappy expression that's a distinct possibility.

Jun sighs loudly through his nose, peels out into the main road and into the rush of frenzied traffic.

“So, if you’re not meeting up with your _crew_ , what _are_ you going to do?” Jun asks.

Unsurprisingly, he’s just met with more moody silence.

He manages a breathless huff of laughter, because _honestly_ , this guy is like a whole parade's worth of mystery and it’s slowly driving him insane.

Jun stares at his gloomy passenger in the rear-view mirror for a minute and tries his hardest to spontaneously develop telepathy, to no avail.

“Are you thinking about handing yourself over to the police?” Jun grasps for something else to break the silence, “That sounds like a plan. Maybe you could jump out of the car and jack someone else for a change—that could be fun. _Or_ you could just catch a ride to another city—leave this all behind you and start afresh. _So many options.”_

The man eyes flick to his in the rear-view mirror just long enough for Jun to see his frustration, but his voice is confident when he says, “We’re going to keep driving—till I figure something out.”

Jun really doesn't like the sound of that option, and says as much. “I don’t like that option. That option sucks. I vote you hand yourself into the police.”

The man’s mouth goes fine and tight. “You don’t _get_ a vote.”

“Yes, I do. This is my car—I get _two_ votes. I get to vote for myself, _and_ my car. And we’re both in agreement that you hand yourself into the police.”

The man cocks his gun and aims it at the back of Jun’s head, as if to suggest his gun gets a vote as well—and that it outvotes Jun and the car somehow.

Which, in all fairness, it probably _does_.

“Well, if I have to drive anymore—I need something to eat. I haven’t eaten since yesterday and normally I would have had at least five cups of coffee by now. _I need caffeine.”_

“No—we can’t stop.” The man mumbles. He sounds bleak, or maybe just distracted.

“Fuck that. I need food, dude. Threaten me all you want. Hell—shoot me even, but if I don’t get something to eat I’m going to become the biggest pain in the ass.” Jun complains into the mirror.

The man levels a fairly steady and long  _are you fucking serious_  look at Jun.

Jun matches it, beat for beat.

The man holds his stare for a minute, then looks away. Gazing outside the window, a muscle in his jaw tics. “We’re not stopping. That’s final.”

And doesn’t that just brass Jun right the fuck off.

A quick, sharp turn sends the man slamming into the passenger door.

“Hey!” He yells, righting himself.

Jun just shrugs, then veers the car dangerously into another side street that sends his passenger tumbling in the back seat.  

“Cut that shit out!”

Jun watches the man’s eyes darken with anger, and wonders when he’d decided angry kidnapping psychopath was a damn sight more attractive than just about anything he’s ever seen. 

“Oops,” Jun says without an ounce of apology. He turns the wheel violently to the right, sending the car careening around the corner. “This is what happens when I’m hungry. I drive like a _lunatic_.”

The man steadies himself by grabbing to the back of Jun’s seat, then stares at him, in a way that looks threatening but doesn't really tell him anything.

Eventually he lowers his gun, sitting back in his seat and placing his free hand on his knee, fingers tapping nervously before he forces himself to still them. He turns to look out the window, the scenery flying by in a whiz of colour.

Finally, he exhales, the puff of breath loud enough to break the silence. “Fine. But you can’t eat in. We need to keep it low-key. Get a drive-through or something.”

Jun grins and flips the indicator when he spots the first drive-through, “McDonalds it is.”

His passenger doesn't look happy about his choice, mouth turning down at the edges like he's honestly horrified by the idea. He’s clearly a Burger King kind of guy, but he sits back in his seat and lowers his gun when Jun indicates left and turns the car into the lane of a McDonald’s drive through.

“Hello Sir, can I take your order?” Asks the cheery, disembodied voice through the receiver.

“Yeah—” Jun begins, leaning out of his window a little to get closer to the order screen. “Listen—the man in the back of my car has taken me hostage and is holding a gun on me. Please call the police.” He says earnestly.

He doesn't even care that his captor hears, that he makes a soft noise of shock in his throat.

There is a long, heavy silence on the other end of the line, were Jun can hear the McDonald’s server taking that on board, and then a _sigh_. “Look dude—I don’t get paid enough to deal with this bullshit. You ordering or what?”

“Worth a shot.” Jun shrugs. He goes on to order, ignoring the incredulous look being levelled at him from the back seat. “I’ll take a double cheese burger meal, large—and a diet coke. And—” He pauses to spare a glance in the rear-view mirror. “You want anything?”

“Oh—uh. I’ll have a salad. Chicken. A McChicken salad—or whatever.”

Jun makes a face and turns back to the mic, “And one Happy Meal.”

His passenger sputters. “What? No—I said I’ll have a _salad.”_

“A Happy meal _please.”_ Jun drawls, deliberately cloying, and is briefly comforted by the scowly little furrow of the man’s brow

“Hey!”

“And can you throw in an extra toy?” Jun adds, smirking. “This asshole needs cheering up.”

His passenger snorts something disgusted.

When Jun drives up to the pay window, he forks over some cash—then directs a pointed look at the back seat. “Pay up, grumpy.”

“Oh, uhm.” The man hesitates, blushing furiously as he fidgets. “I kind of don’t have my wallet on me. _Sorry_.”

Jun raises an eyebrow that he hopes the guy understands is pretty damn unimpressed.

He’s pretty sure there’s an unspoken rule that hostages don’t have to pay for the captors to eat.

Okay, probably not. But there _should_ be.

* * *

 

In spite of having gotten to bed late the night before—Mingyu is still working well past midnight; scouring through CCTV footage and fielding security calls. He’d watched the same 10-minute loop of video almost a hundred times, trying to identify the man who’d snuck into HQ. But he couldn't find any connection between _Lee Minseok_ , the heist at the bank and the man Mingyu had known as Wonwoo.

Which wasn’t a surprise. It wasn't as if they were all using their real names, anyway. 

When he finally _does_ make it back to his apartment, he’s so tired he doesn’t notice the upturned lamp in the living room until he’s standing barefoot in the kitchen—guzzling a bottle of water.

Mingyu sets the bottle down on the counter noiselessly as his eyes dart around the room.

He vaguely remembers the front door had still been locked when he got it, which is a good sign. No forced entry as far as he could see.

Maybe he was over-reacting, but he couldn't take the chance. 

From his spot in the kitchen, he checks every darkened corner, every piece of furniture large enough to hide behind, searching for anything that looks out of place, or that looks like a trap.

He doesn't see anything, but he's careful where he puts his feet anyway as he steps towards the lamp and…

Mingyu freezes when he hears a noise from down the hall.

Not a crash, not a loaded barrel—just someone very quietly pushing a door open.

If he hadn't been on edge, if he hadn't been listening for it, Mingyu is sure he wouldn't have heard it.

It could be anyone, of course. Soonyoung is the most likely and has his own set of keys, but Mingyu has never known him to show up uninvited and let himself in, and besides, Soonyoung had called it a day several hours ago and had Seungkwan drive him home, citing a headache.

Mingyu glides his hand under the kitchen table, fingers colliding with the butt of the Glock he'd secured there for emergencies. It slides into his hand without a sound.

It’s pre-loaded but he checks the clip anyway, more out of habit than anything else, and waits for something to happen. A dull scrape of feet on the carpet and Mingyu settles in the front hall, thankful the space is wider than the hallway. It gives him the advantage over anyone entering.

The creak of floorboards comes again, a little louder, and this time, Mingyu can hear the slightest shuffling of feet, then the sudden intake of breath.

Mingyu relaxes his grip on his gun, takes a deep breath and listens for the tell-tale click of tumblers falling into place. A real pro job—done in seconds—and quietly, too.

He braces himself as a figure appears in the shadows of the hallway, directly in his sights.  

“Big mistake pal.” Mingyu adopts an accent that is a lot rougher than his own.

He doesn’t appreciate strangers breaking into his home, especially when they rearrange his furniture, and the guy with the dark, floppy hair is doing his best to keep his face in shadows so Mingyu can't even get a decent look at him.

“S-sorry. But I didn’t know where else to go.” The shadow says, voice sounding more than a little broken.

Mingyu frowns and keeps the Glock steady, even as he reaches the other hand up to feel along the wall for the light switch.  

Light floods the hallway, revealing a man in a bloody jacket leaning against the wall and all the breath goes out of Mingyu in one go.

“ _Wonwoo_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Please don't make Jisoo a priest! XD It was tempting, but wouldn't have worked for the plot.  
> 2) Feels like I've been writing this for ages, and yet-writing from several different perspectives means the plot is moving so fucking slow!! I just want to get to the Jicheol smut tbh! :(  
> 3) Hope you enjoy the update! Thank you for reading!


	5. Cause I made my mind up, you're going to be mine.

“Wonwoo?”

Mingyu relaxes instinctively, and then immediately tenses up again, cross with himself.

Wonwoo’s the _last_ guy he should be letting his guard down around, because Mingyu knows damn well how guys like him operate.

“Yeah—I appreciate this is little unusual.” Wonwoo flips his hands over at waist-level, palms up, a discreet pantomime of honourable intentions. “But I promise—no trouble.” He says quietly.

There's an almost apologetic air to the words, but Mingyu doesn’t lower his weapon. 

He's known for many things—his skill with information retrieval, his lethal aim, his suits—but politeness isn't one of them.

“You’ll forgive me for not putting away my gun—but it’s not every day the guy I slept with tries to hold up the bank I work at, then shows up in my house later.” Mingyu sneers.

The thought of Wonwoo infiltrating his space, memorizing the minutiae of his life for later exploitation – it makes Mingyu’s skin crawl.

“I’m guessing you’ve been following me for some time—and last night was some kind of _reconnaissance_?”

“No. That was a complete coincidence.” says Wonwoo, evenly enough that Mingyu isn’t sure whether he is lying or not. “I was as surprised as you when we—" He pauses to take a deep, ragged breath, lips drawn into a tight line. He looks tired. Hunted.

Mingyu can see his eyes flicker, his shoulders sagging noticeably as he struggles to stay upright, he's holding his side and his breathing is shallow.

Bruised ribs, probably, and that's a best-case scenario.

“Why do you look so— _punctured_?” Mingyu asks, jerking his head at the holes in Wonwoo’s jacket.

“I had a small run in with a bomb.” Wonwoo’s words flow out on the tide of a shaky exhale.

“A bomb?”

That doesn’t sound like  _no trouble_  to Mingyu, but perhaps Wonwoo’s got a different rubric for this sort of thing.

Regardless, Mingyu doesn’t like it.

This is new territory for him.

Picking up hot guys for a quick fuck is one thing; hot guys turning up uninvited on his doorstep is quite another. Even if Wonwoo’s motives are innocent today, there’s nothing to stop him turning on Mingyu tomorrow.

“Bank robbery and a bomb all in the same day.” Mingyu whistles. “Wow—I think you’re a little _too_ high maintenance for me.”

Wonwoo offers him a weak smile in return. He’s gone a shade paler, staring fixedly at the couch in front of him. “Can I—sit down?” he says in a careful voice

“Hmm— _no_.” Mingyu says, a little pettily.

“ _Please_?”

“No.”

“Alright.” Wonwoo says, sounding strained. He wets his lips with his tongue, gaze drifting from the gun in Mingyu’s hand to the door. “I’ll go.”

“I can’t let you do that either.” Mingyu says, watching Wonwoo try to pretend he doesn't need the wall to hold him up. “You’re a risk. Can’t have risks in my line of work.”

Something that is two parts confusion and one part fear skitters across Wonwoo’s face like a startled insect. “So—what? You’re gonna shoot me?”

“ _Maybe_.” Mingyu drawls, cocking the trigger pointedly.

It would be so easy to take care of this now.

Problems solved in one squeeze of the trigger.

Wonwoo _does_ look rather wretched, though, with the dark purple circles under his eyes, face drained of all other colour and his grim little pout. No one has ever accused Mingyu of being overly soft-hearted, and yet even he is feeling an odd kind of urge to usher Wonwoo over to the couch and sit him down with a nice hot cup of tea and fetch his first aid kit.

Wonwoo takes a single step forward when his knees buckle under him, sending him pitching forward toward what promises to be a very unpleasant landing. Mingyu catches him before he can get too far, fingers digging sharply into his ribs.

“Drama queen,” Mingyu says, faintly patronizing.

Securing the pistol, Mingyu lays it carefully on the coffee table, then tugs his good arm more securely across Wonwoo’s shoulders and begins steering him towards the bedroom.

“Come on then. Let’s get you to the bed so I can get a look at you.” Mingyu says. He pulls Wonwoo in just a bit tighter against his side, steadying him before they begin the long shuffle down the corridor. “If you pass out on me right now, I’m leaving you on the floor.”

Wonwoo manages a breathless huff of laughter. “So heroic.”

“It’s more than you deserve.” Mingyu says, but his arm is unyielding round Wonwoo’s waist, bearing him up as they make their way to the bed.

Once they’re there, Mingyu ducks out from under Wonwoo’s arm, and eases him down onto the bed.

He watches Wonwoo slump back onto the covers as if he’s lost all his bones.

“Where does it hurt?”

Wonwoo doesn’t answer for a minute. He lies staring at nothing, then suddenly pushes the heels of his hands into his forehead. He remains like that for a second, as if he’s trying not to pass out. Mingyu watches.

“ _Everywhere_.”

Mingyu throws him a glance that spells out exactly how unhelpful that information is.  “Awesome. Thank you for being _specific_.”

Wonwoo releases his head and looks up at Mingyu. His eyes are watering. “I managed to pull out most of the glass from my arms, but—I didn’t have anything to stitch the wound.”

Mingyu sighs and leaves the room, goes to the kitchen and puts his head inside his medicines cabinet. He’s got a fully stocked first aid kit and plenty of bandages, but there’s no pain relief except an expired bottle of Paracetamol.

He ignores it—and reaches for the bottle of Vodka instead.

“Lucky for you—this isn’t the first time I’ve had to stitch someone up like this.” Mingyu observes, walking back into the bedroom.

Wonwoo has managed to shrug his jacket off now without out too much apparent trauma and is staring pale faced at the deeps cuts along his arms.

Some will need stitches; the others are superficial enough to sting like fuck but should heal fine on their own—as long as they don’t get infected. Dragging a chair over to the bed, Mingyu drops the first aid kit on the floor and sets the bottle on the night stand.

"I don’t really like Vodka," Wonwoo announces, even as he makes a grab it.

He wedges the bottle between his knees and tries to twist the cap off one-handed; his other hand isn't in any condition to contribute to the effort, gashed as it is and bleeding worryingly.

"Well you better start liking it—cause there aren’t any pharmacies open this late and I don’t have any painkillers," Mingyu mutters, snatching it away.

He sets the cap carefully on the table before handing the bottle over again, dropping into the empty chair as he watches Wonwoo tip back a generous swallow.

Wonwoo's grimace would be comical in other circumstances, but Mingyu just plucks the vodka out of his grip again.

"We good?" Mingyu checks.

"Of course not," Wonwoo mutters. His eyes are still sharp, but they won't stay that way for long—not with the amount of alcohol he just knocked back.

Mingyu moves as gently as he can when he takes hold of Wonwoo's wrist and positions his injured hand on the towel between them. The lamp casts sickly yellow light across the gash on his arm.

Not so deep after all, Mingyu realizes with relief, but still bleeding messily over the towel.

He spares an upward glance and catches Wonwoo's eyes—groggier now—then reaches for the first aid kit and gets to work.

He's quick about it—years of experience have made him damn good at stitching—but the cut is a long one, and by the time he's got Wonwoo bandaged up, Wonwoo has helped himself to another long drink.

“Messy—but you’ll live.” Mingyu offers in reassurance.

Wonwoo hums around the lip of the bottle, takes another swig and growls when Mingyu pulls the bottle away.  

“I think you’ve had enough.” Mingyu says, heartlessly placing what’s left of the bottle out of reach.

Wonwoo's eyes watch him blearily as Mingyu cleans away the mess.

"Thanks—I erm, appreciate this," Wonwoo says, rising on steady-ish legs once Mingyu has tucked the first aid kit into the nearest cupboard.

Mingyu gives up a tight smile; it's all he can manage.

“Soo.” Mingyu drawls, pushing his hands into his pockets. “This is kind of awkward, huh? Really didn’t expect to see you again. Not that I’m complaining, I just wish it wasn’t under these circumstances is all. I haven’t ratted you out by the way. I’m not sure why.”

Wonwoo's eyes narrow knowingly, his brow furrowing as he crowds forward into Mingyu's space. Mingyu retreats—but Wonwoo just follows, the clueless ox, until Mingyu feels the edge of the bureau digging into his back and has nowhere else to go.

“Uh, Wonwoo—what are you doing?” Mingyu opens his mouth to ask what the hell this is, but doesn't manage a single word before Wonwoo crushes in close and—Christ, shit, fuckfuck _fuck_ — _kisses_ him.

Shock freezes Mingyu in place, or maybe it's the weight of Wonwoo's body pressing him hard against the uncomfortable edge of the bureau, or Wonwoo's tongue sneaking past his lips, darting deep and tasting of vodka.

Mingyu breathes a startled sound into his mouth as Wonwoo moans eagerly, hands doing their best to divest Mingyu of his shirt without undoing a single button. 

It takes Mingyu a moment—a very _long_ moment, to work his hands between them, pressing his palms flat to Wonwoo's chest so he can gently push him away.

Wonwoo subsides with reluctance, still hovering close. He peers up at Mingyu with clouded eyes—desire or alcohol, Christ maybe both—and Mingyu's breath lodges painfully in his throat.

There's damning heat in his own blood, as his body reacts to Wonwoo's proximity—to the _kiss_ , the hard muscles beneath his hands, the unmistakable offer in Wonwoo's eyes.

Mingyu never expected to see him again—and he certainly never expected _this_.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Mingyu says unsteadily, because he thinks someone should be pointing that out. Bruised ribs and puncture wounds tend to make everything more difficult. Sex, for example.

Wonwoo blinks up at him slowly, slower with each passing second and Mingyu knows the long day, the pain, and his injuries are all catching up with him.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re injured. Maybe a little bit in shock too.” Mingyu huffs.

He can see the flash of surprise in Wonwoo's eyes, the moment he realizes what Mingyu is saying.

"Oh, _please_ —save it." Wonwoo is glaring now, peering up at Mingyu like he's trying to look straight through his soul. "I'm fine. You fixed me up great. You’re not taking advantage, so will you kindly stop having an attack of conscience and get naked.”

"Easy for you to say," Mingyu retorts dryly. "You're drunk. I bet if we have this conversation again tomorrow you'll sing a different tune." 

“You’re right. Tomorrow I’ll be pissed off cause I didn’t get _laid_.” Wonwoo drawls.

He's clearly trying to put the weight of command into the words, but the vague slur undermines his efforts to an almost comedic degree.

Mingyu can't help it. He laughs. It's a jagged sound, half hysterical, and only makes Wonwoo look more put out.

“Do you even hear yourself? You’re _slurring_.”

“So?” Wonwoo murmurs, his mouth on Mingyu's throat now, his hands working his trousers open. “Just—let me suck your dick. As a thank you. Or maybe you want to fuck me again?”

Mingyu catches his wrist and sidesteps the question in favour of an argument less likely to tear him apart. “Wonwoo, _pal_ , _buddy_ —almost stranger I slept with once then broke into my house—you need to lie down.”

“Okay. Then what?” Wonwoo asks.

“Then nothing. You’re still injured and drunk. I like my workplace affairs to be consensual.”

Wonwoo’s face is pinched and grey, conflicting emotions written in the lines of his mouth. He works his wrist free and reaches for Mingyu’s fly again.

“Stop being so noble you asshole.” Wonwoo says venomously and Mingyu feels a stab of genuine hurt.

Even doing the right thing makes him feel like crap.

“Yes, that’s right— _I’m_ the asshole. Time for bed.” Mingyu huffs, grabbing Wonwoo under the arm and steering him towards the bed. Manhandling Wonwoo around is starting to feel familiar. Laying him out on top of the bed, likewise.

Wonwoo’s eyes flutter weakly while Mingyu is still leaning over him, trying to undress him as clinically as possible.

They’re face to face, close enough that Mingyu can feel the faint heat of Wonwoo’s breath.

“Just let me,” Wonwoo says, hand straying to Mingyu’s open collar.

“No,” Mingyu says, catching his wrist and pinning it to the bed.

Mingyu starts to stand up, but Wonwoo puts up a hand and catches loose hold of his shirt. It’s not much of a grip--he could pull free if he tried. But he doesn’t. He puts his hands back on the cover beside Wonwoo’s shoulders, and waits.

“Why are you helping me?” Wonwoo says. He’s frowning again, but he doesn’t look panicked or angry. He looks as if he’s just remembered something strange about himself. “Why haven’t you called the cops?”

For a moment, Mingyu is caught without an answer.

He knows exactly why he’s not calling the cops, but _why_ isn’t he calling Seungcheol, or Soonyoung or putting a bullet through Wonwoo’s head and rolling his limp body up in the carpet. _That_ —he really has no logical answer for.

“I don’t know—guess I’m just a nice guy,” Mingyu laughs.

Wonwoo’s still holding onto his shirt. His face has more colour in it now, and his eyelids look heavy. His eyes glassy. He’s starting to slip.

“We’re not friends,” Wonwoo says, but Mingyu doesn’t think it’s tailored to hurt.

“Not as such, no.”

“But you patched me up.”

They look at each other for a long moment. Wonwoo’s eyes are dark, his eyelids falling. A smile curves the corner of his mouth. Mingyu is conscious, again, of Wonwoo’s breath on his face. The light, almost unconscious hold that Wonwoo has on him.

“You should go to sleep,” Mingyu says again, “We’ll talk in the morning.” But Wonwoo’s eyes are already closed and he’s drooling into the pillow; the unselfconsciousness of the severely exhausted.

Carefully, Mingyu disengages himself. His back twinges when he stands up.

He walks away from the bed, goes into the bathroom, and closes the door. Stands staring at himself in the mirror.

“What the fuck am I doing?” he asks himself.

* * *

 

Jun cruises more or less in the same tired loop around the city, waiting for more directions from the prick in the back.

He’d established a few hours ago that his captor had to be choosing the most circuitous routes possible for reasons that had _nothing_ to do with losing a potential tail and all to do with not knowing where to go.

Which would be great if his passenger was a paying customer and likely to leave him an outstanding Uber review for this _endless_ tour of Seoul, but not so awesome when Jun’s lost a day’s work, has bills to pay and still has a gun aimed at the back of his head.

The sun has completely set now, and the afternoon heat has faded into an early evening chill that makes him roll up the windows to ward against it. Stores are closing, and bars and restaurants are lighting up. People are lined up outside, smoking cigarettes and waiting for tables, greeting each other with laughter and shouts.

Everyone is winding down—except for Jun, and he’s beginning to feel it now, the stress and toil of the day. His eyes get heavier with each blink.

He lowers his speed and drives carefully, aware that dizziness is not a condition that's encouraged when operating a high-powered motor vehicle, and tries not to think about how fabulous it would be to fall asleep at the wheel.

“ _Dude_ ….You need a plan.” Jun says, for what feels like the hundredth time.

His captor grunts something unimpressed from the backseat, where he's been wedged miserably against the door since Jun confiscated his Happy Meal toy for spilling his Cola on the seat earlier.

“There’s gotta be someplace I could take you. A safehouse or an apartment or something. Someplace you can lay low.”

The man doesn’t say anything, clearly still undecided what he’s going to do next or where they’re going. Not sure who he can trust— _maybe_?

He’s shit at hiding what is going on in his head, even if Jun isn’t exactly fluent in all his silences.

Jun suspects without his constant prodding and interference, the man would be happy enough to continue driving around Seoul until they’re both old and grey.

“I can’t keep driving like this. I’ve been driving since 5 am this morning.” Jun groans. He glances over to see how his passenger will take this. His passenger takes it by opening his mouth, then shutting it abruptly.  He looks guilty enough that Jun thinks he can convince him if he pushes a little more.

Jun rubs his hand over his face. “I’m not trying to be difficult, just injecting a little _reality_ into our situation. I’m exhausted dude, I need rest or I might fall asleep and mount the curb here. So, can you just _decide_ what you’re doing so I can go home? I want to take a shower—get into bed—take of my clothes.”

The man catches his eye in the rear-view mirror, and snorts. “In that order?”

“This is not the time for you to develop a sense of humour asshole.” Jun mutters, but he puts his eyes back on the road. “I’m too tired to appreciate it.”

The guy kind of glares at him, but it's lacking its usual challenging force. He looks tired too.

Eventually he sighs and says, “Pull the car over. You can nap while I keep watch.”

Jun frowns, but keeps his eyes on the road. “Keep watch? Don’t you want to nap too?”

The man makes a face where he's sprawled over the backseat and looks at Jun like he's an idiot. “What? So you can take my gun while I’m sleeping and drive the car to a police station?”

Jun huffs out a breath. “You know what—I’m so tired I didn’t even think of that. Fine—we’ll do it your way.”

Jun follows the signs to the next parking lot and pulls the car into an empty space nestled under a tree. A quick glance around tells him that they’ve pulled into a public park, nothing around but trees and picnic tables and the glow of the headlights until Jun switches them off.

There’s not enough room in the car to sleep comfortably, not even when Jun puts back the seat, but he accepts some shut eye is better than nothing.

“I know this place looks innocent enough, but this isn’t the safest part of town.” Jun says, as he reclines his seat all the way back to a more sleep friendly position. Casting an eye down his passenger’s form—he finds the man is still annoyingly attractive even upside down. “Make sure you don’t actually fall asleep cause someone might jack my car.”

The man shifts sideways in the back and kicks his feet up, leather creaking quietly underneath him. “Is that even possible? Jacking a car that’s already been jacked?”

“Yeah, absolutely.” Jun nods, toeing off his boots. “It’s called double jacking. Or Jack—inception. Jack—jacking.”

The man’s face briefly twitches into something deeply amused.  He looks out his window, and when he looks back there’s a faint blush on his cheeks. “That sounds weirdly—sexual.”

Jun's mouth twitches at that last word. 

“ _Please_ —don’t talk to me about sex right now.” He groans, shutting his eyes briefly. Then decides he should probably clarify “You’ve disturbed my nightly routine which—I’ll have you know—involves a nice jerking off session at the end of a long day.”

The man smirks; Jun doesn’t need to look at him to _know_ it. 

“I’m sorry I can’t help you with that.” he clucks, a little mocking, but not cruel.

And damned if that didn't almost sound like an invitation in Jun’s head.

“Who says you can’t?” Jun asks, shifting up onto his elbows. He turns his head to raise an eyebrow at his captor. “ _You_ —or the kidnappers moral guidebook? Cause last time I checked—you don’t have one, so there’s really no good reason why you can’t offer me a helping hand here. You kind of owe me, and an orgasm _always_ helps me get right to sleep.”

The man holds his gaze, steady, but Jun still has no idea what he's thinking. There's a long pause, long enough that Jun starts to worry that maybe he's pushed too far, and _yes_ , maybe suggesting your kidnapper _service_ you is the very definition of pushing it. But the guy hasn’t said _no_.

Then the man makes a quiet noise, something low and strained and _considering_ and pushes forward in his seat to whisper in Jun’s ear:

“If you’ve got energy for sex—you’ve got energy to keep driving this car. What’s it going to be?”

“Eugh. You’re no fun.” says Jun, letting his head fall back onto the head rest. Rolling onto his side to face the door, he shuts his eyes and says around a cracking yawn, “Goodnight grumpy.”

He pretends to sleep for a few minutes, listening carefully to what his passenger does. The man drinks some water, then fiddles with the bottlecap. He toys with the safety on his gun, flicking it on and off, drums his fingers a little against the window. Finally, there’s a quiet sigh and the sound of clothing rustling—then Jun feels the weight and heat of a jacket settling over his shoulders.

“ _Aww_ —you’re the sweetest.” Jun mumbles sleepily.

The man inhales, one quick noise, like Jun's caught him by surprise by still being awake.

“Shut your face.” The words are grumbled from overhead.

Jun falls asleep smiling.

* * *

 

Mingyu half expects Wonwoo to be gone in the morning, but he’s still there next to him in bed, lying on his back with his hands clasped loosely on top of his stomach. Mingyu wonders if he’s slept at all, or if he’s been lying there like that all night, staring at the ceiling and planning on smothering him to death with his pillow.  

Mingyu stretches, stifling a grunt at the stiffness in his back. Wonwoo rolls his head to the side to look at him, his raised eyebrow says everything Mingyu is already thinking

“Err—good morning,” Mingyu says.

Wonwoo doesn’t respond, just keeps looking at him, as if waiting for him to come up with something more _interesting_. Mingyu barely resists the urge to kick him underneath the blankets.

There’s no trace of the fever-hot hunger from earlier, no anger or grief or anything, really. But his hair is sticking out in about a hundred different directions at once and it’s a little adorable.

“How are you feeling?” Mingyu says, grasping for something else to break the silence.

Wonwoo glances down at the white gauze taped around his arms, and nods. “Better. Thanks.”

Mingyu pushes up to lean against the headboard. It’s getting bright outside, the orange light of the sunrise is burning through the flimsy curtain between the blackouts.

Wonwoo doesn’t shift from his position next to him. He seems to be chewing something over. For a moment Mingyu wonders if he’s really sober, if he knows where he is.

“I’m fine,” Wonwoo says, before Mingyu can ask. “And I’m really sorry. About all of this.” He waves a hand, encompassing the room, the city outside the windows. “And, uh, I’m sorry about being weird last night. I don’t know what I was thinking.” He stops. His cheeks have reddened.

“Well,” Mingyu tries not to pause too egregiously. “—you were injured and very drunk. And I am very _irresistible_.”

Wonwoo’s ears have gone pink, and he rubs the palm of his hand against his thigh, an unconscious nervous tic. “Yeah, I guess.” He concedes.

They’re quiet for a while, breathing in tandem, against the sound of birdsong and traffic from outside. And then, Mingyu turns sideways on the bed so he can face Wonwoo, even though Wonwoo seems to be far more interested staring at his arms than at Mingyu for some reason.

“Wonwoo?” Mingyu pauses, inhales carefully. “Why did you come to me?”

He feels an instant stab of guilt when the words make Wonwoo's face shutter up tightly. He looks momentarily remote now, and sits for a moment staring into space, looking as if he’s working on some difficult maths problem in his head.

“My contingency plan didn’t exactly work out.” He murmurs.  

Which _really_ doesn’t answer the question as to why he came _here_ —to Mingyu—and not gone to lick his wounds somewhere else. But it’s clear that Wonwoo’s not looking to discuss that right now.

“Did your contingency plan involve a _bomb_?”

“It involved a warehouse—that _happened_ to have a bomb planted inside it.” Wonwoo says, and gives a weak, humourless chuckle.

Mingyu dips his head and raises an eyebrow at him, “That doesn’t sound like a very good contingency plan.”

Wonwoo braces one hand against the bed and sits up. He moves shakily, cautiously, as if everything hurts. “It wasn’t my plan exactly. I’m just following orders.”

“Any ideas _who_ planted it?”

“No.” Wonwoo takes a deep, frustrated breath, lets his head hang for a second, then squares his shoulders and looks up. “I was kind of focusing on just staying on my feet and getting the hell out of there.”

“Have you considered the possibility that it might have been one of your crew? Maybe someone didn’t take too kindly to you walking out.” He’s not sure why it occurs to him to ask, or if he even really cares, but he can’t stop the question once it’s asked.

Wonwoo frowns, shakes his head like he’s trying to rattle the thought right out of his brain.

“No. They _wouldn’t_. They’re not like that. They’re…” He doesn’t continue, leaving it to Mingyu to supply the rest of that sentence.

_Loyal? Stupid? Too busy planning ineffectual heists?_

“You seem awfully sure about that.”

“I am. They’re _good_ guys.” Wonwoo says, scrubbing at his eyes.

There’s a long line of bare skin showing on his stomach where his shirt has ridden up, and Mingyu unconsciously slides his tongue across his lips at the sight

“Hmm. You guys do seem to be _pretty_ loyal to each other.” Mingyu murmurs, and Wonwoo’s expression is abruptly bewildered. 

“How would _you_ know?” Wonwoo asks, blinking at Mingyu, squinting, suspicious.

Mingyu’s back is starting to twinge. He straightens up for a moment, rolls his shoulders to try to work out the tightening knots of tension. He’s managed roughly three hours of sleep and he’s going to feel like ten kinds of hell later. He resettles a bare centimetre or two to the right, so that he can just feel the hard point of Wonwoo’s elbow grazing his forearm.

“We—uh—caught one of your crew. The _little_ one.” Mingyu states, bluntly cutting to the heart of the matter.

Wonwoo gasps. “Jihoon?”

“So that’s his name.” Mingyu snorts. It’s a good thing Wonwoo wasn’t captured instead, cause it doesn’t take much for him to start volunteering names. “Huh. You know—he wouldn’t even let _that_ much slip when we were interrogating him.”

Wonwoo winces. “Shit. Fuck! Is he--”

“Don’t worry. He’s alright.” Mingyu interjects with a chuckle. “A little bruised but alive. And he drove off into the sunset—$400,000 richer.”

Wonwoo, startled, takes a second to reorient himself. “What?”

Mingyu tries not to sigh. “It’s a long story.”

Just as he’s opening his mouth to continue—a cell phone goes off, buzzing somewhere down on the floor.

“Hold on,” Mingyu says, and rolls over, leaning halfway off the bed to rummage through the heaps of discarded menswear on the floor.

“It’s my boss,” Mingyu looks sideways at Wonwoo, expecting him to kick up a fuss. “I should take this.”

Wonwoo waves a hand, magnanimously conceding to the inevitable, and Mingyu retreats to the corner of the room to answer the call.  

“Good morning sir.” He answers, trying his hardest to sound alert.

“Hi—Mingyu. _Ah_ —did I wake you?” Seungcheol says stiffly. “I know you got in pretty late last night.”

“No—uh, no I was already awake. I was just reviewing CCTV footage.” Mingyu says, managing to keep his voice serious, professional. If Mingyu were Seungcheol, he would never suspect he had spent most of the night patching up one of the men on his most wanted list.  

A sigh across the line. “You’re still working on that?”

“Of course.” Mingyu counters quickly. He pauses, takes a measured breath. “No rest until I get the job done.”

Seungcheol is quiet for a moment.

Mingyu waits for the polite dismissal. Seungcheol always calls, but he never lingers; any moment now he’ll say _, ‘I need you to do this,’_ and in a few hours Mingyu will be there, and that will be that until the next time Seungcheol tracks him down for an update.

“Look—” Seungcheol begins suddenly, interrupting Mingyu’s mental figuring of the odds that he could call in sick today without acquiring any significant damage to his person. “I’m sorry about how I reacted yesterday. It wasn’t your fault that guy got into the building, and I put the onus on you when I shouldn’t have.”

Wary, something verging on dread building low in his gut, Mingyu tenses.

Seungcheol doesn’t sound right. He sounds frustrated and a bit flustered, nothing like his steely calm in crisis situations.

Mingyu’s surging paranoia isn’t helped when Seungcheol goes on to say--“I hope you can _forgive_ me, Gyu.”

“I—uh,” Mingyu falters, thrown by the question. His brain starts throwing up reasons for Seungcheol’s sudden strange behaviour and there can only be _one_ logical conclusion.

“Oh my god—are you _dying_?” Mingyu gasps.

Seungcheol obviously smothers a laugh, “No—no. I just had to let you know I felt bad about what happened—I shouldn’t have lashed out at you like that.”

Mingyu’s making a face that he knows is entirely lost on Seungcheol, miles away on the other end of the phone. It’s not entirely lost on Wonwoo, however, who smothers a laugh into the pillow.  

“Oh my god—you are dying! Is it cancer? It’s cancer—isn’t it! It’s a brain tumour! I knew it—that’s why you’ve been acting so _weird_ lately. The tumour is pressing on your brain and making you crazy! Oh god! Why are you telling me this over the phone!”

“I’m not dying!” Seungcheol yells, then mutters something that sounds like,  _what have I done to deserve this_. He sounds slightly less agitated when he huffs and says, “I just wanted you to know I care about you. You’re one of the few people I care about actually. And if I do things sometimes that seem unfair—it’s because I care. Don’t take them personally, okay?”

Mingyu allows himself to relax, sitting down against the bed with his heart still pounding wildly in his chest.

“Okay.” He says. His voice sounds remote even to him, “Thank you, sir.”

“Take the day off, yeah. Rest up and I’ll see you on Wednesday.” Seungcheol says, and there's the faint click of him ringing off.

“Who was that?” Wonwoo asks. He’s slumped on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, his head hanging. There’s small specks of blood seeping through the bandages on his arms, Mingyu notices. They’ll need changing soon.

“My boss.”

Wonwoo looks up, “What did he want?”

Mingyu thinks that over for a moment, scratching idly at his three-day stubble “I’m not sure—but my gut tells me it’s not good.”

* * *

 

Jeonghan wakes the next morning with his stomach unsettled from having prescription strength analgesics stuffed into with not much food.

The room is uncomfortably bright thanks to the west-facing windows, and his aching skull protests the red-tinged light. The pain in his shoulder throbs in perfect rhythm with his heartbeat, and all he wants is to burrow completely beneath the covers.

A throat clears from the direction of the door, and Jeonghan cranes his neck to look.

Jisoo stands just inside the room, wearing a smile on his face and holding a tray in his hands.

Jeonghan is happy to see him, which makes him think that he should definitely go back to sleep, because obviously he’s _delirious_.

"You look better this morning. Did you sleep well?" Jisoo asks, easing farther into the room.

He sits on the edge of the bed, setting the tray down on the nightstand. Without being asked, he helps Jeonghan sit upright against the headboard.

This new position costs Jeonghan some measure of his tightly swaddled warmth, but he doesn't complain. “I slept as well as I could, _considering_.”

"Here." Jisoo hands him the bowl—an unappetizing amalgam of mush so thick the spoon stands upright of its own accord. "I made you root vegetable soup. It’s a family recipe, very nourishing.”

Jeonghan quirks an eyebrow then jangles his cuffed wrist against the headboard. “How exactly am I going to hold the bowl _and_ a spoon at the same time with my good arm restrained?”

“Ah, sorry.” Jisoo grimaces, pulling the bowl back. He takes hold of the spoon, spoons up a mouthful of soup, lets the excess drip off, then holds it up to Jeonghan’s mouth.

“Seriously?” Jeonghan laughs, eyes darting between the spoon and Jisoo’s face. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you just— _uncuffed_ me?”

“No. It’s either this—or a _funnel_.” Jisoo says, then pauses. He looks disturbingly amused. “Would you _prefer_ a funnel?”

Jeonghan can’t think of anything to say to that, so he opens his mouth and lets Jisoo feed him.

And Jisoo _does_ , happily.

The man is actually feeding him. With every spoonful, he gently blows on the liquid, making sure it is the right temperature before offering it.

“You really need to uncuff me after this.” Jeonghan says, after a few mouthfuls of companionable silence. “I have to go. My crew are waiting for me.”

Jisoo’s eyes look heavenward, like he despairs of his life.

“Well they’re just going to have to wait a while longer. You need rest!” says Jisoo, perhaps a bit more harshly than normal.

Jeonghan’s so startled he can only stare.

All this hospitality is beginning to have a sinister feel to it. The seclusion, the cuffs, the spoon-feeding and unnatural kindness; Jisoo’s starting to give him Kathy Bates in _Misery_ vibes.

“You’re not going to use a sledgehammer to break my ankles if I try to leave, are you?” Jeonghan asks, squinting at his host.

Jisoo freezes with the spoon in mid-air simply  _looks_  at him, bland and unflinching. “Did you just compare me to Annie Wilkes in Misery?”

Jeonghan gives him an apologetic look. “It’s a good movie.”

“I only read the book actually.” Jisoo shrugs, dunking the spoon into the bowl. “Didn’t much care for it.”

He lifts up the spoon with a piece of potato balanced on it, holds it up to Jeonghan’s mouth—not blowing to cool it this time. Jeonghan sips at the spoon, burns his lips and tongue, hisses air around the red-hot coal of the potato in his mouth, manages to bite down. "Of course, you didn’t," he agrees, fanning his mouth, swallowing. "Probably because you saw yourself projected in the main antagonist. That’s why you’re keeping me cuffed to the bed, you see yourself in her.”

“Perhaps. I _am_ very tempted to spill this soup all over you.” says Jisoo, unrepentant, dimpling.

Jeonghan can feel his brows ticking upward. “Well—if it’s any consolation, you’re much more attractive than Kathy Bates.”

Jisoo laughs without amusement, then whacks him on the nose with the spoon. “That’s not much of a compliment. I don’t think Kathy Bates is anyone’s universal standard for attractiveness.”

Jeonghan grins. He's quite certain there was something he meant to say next, but it's lost. Instead he slumps back against the headboard and allows Jisoo to continue feeding him. 

Once Jeonghan finishes eating, Jisoo set the tray down and fetches a glass of water and another couple of pills.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” Jeonghan begins, draining the glass and handing it back. “What _is_ a Sunday School teacher doing with a pair of handcuffs?”

Jisoo doesn’t spare him a glance, but he does flush bright red.

“Would you look at the time—I’m going to be late for choir practice.” He murmurs, grabbing the tray and scuttling out of the room quickly.

Jeonghan shakes his head and sighs.

He's not used to flirting that goes nowhere.  

* * *

 

Jihoon hasn't slept in two days. Not really. At least not for any substantial length of time or with any degree of real restfulness. He dozed off for maybe an hour while sitting in a chair with a gun on his lap, waiting for the front door to burst open and someone to blow his brains out. But nobody came,  so he awoke angry and stiff, his neck muscles aching from the odd angle at which he'd fallen asleep.

48 hours isn't a terribly long time, but it's enough to wear Jihoon’s nerves out.

Planning for an attack by a vengeful mobster's mooks is _exhausting_.

He’d bypassed the crew’s rendezvous point and drove straight to his own safe house—because he couldn’t take any chances that he was being followed. He’d ripped open the duffel bag the minute he’d gotten through the door, spread the contents out over the coffee table and searched it thoroughly. He’d checked through each stack of bills, then the lining of the bag—for bugs, wires, tracking devices—anything. But it was all clean.

Did the Mafia just let him walk out with £400,000 in cash—no strings attached?

Apparently so. But it's bugging him too, a frayed bit of thought, a loose end. 

“What the fuck is going on?” Jihoon says out loud to the empty room.

With no counter attack in sight, Jihoon stays holed up in his apartment, not taking any calls and trying to make a plan.

Ideally, he supposes, with this kind of money he'd be sitting on a tropical beach somewhere, soaking in the rays and sipping a fruity drink. Except he's allergic to most fruits, and he detests beaches, actually.

So he thinks about how he could _invest_ his money instead.

Just like any other hard-working guy—he has pipe dreams, because even criminals know there comes a time where you decide to tap out and settle down. But he’s only twenty-four, still at the prime of his career and those pipe dreams are a long way off for now.

He spends the rest of the afternoon in research-mode—headphones on, laptop open, a pack of highlighters to his right, a stack of post-it notes to his left.

The first thing he does is search the bank’s website, which is something he did during his preliminary research anyway, but now he digs deeper.

Scrolling all the way to the bottom of the page, underneath the banking jargon and testimonials of satisfied businessmen is the copyright information: _Part of the Choi Industries Group ǁ ©Copyright Choi Industries ǁ 2002-20018. All rights reserved._

Choi industries?

Why does that sound….. _familiar_?

The _second_ thing Jihoon does is Google Choi Industries and— _hello_ —there he is, Hot Mob Boss in all his sharp suited, slicked back hair glory. The most recent picture available is from last week, of him with the Mayor at some charity gala where he’s donated a whopping ten million dollars towards a new hospital ward.

A generous guy all round it seems.

Jihoon hovers the mouse over the picture until the caption pops up: Choi Seungcheol with Mayor—

_Wait a fucking second……_

“Choi Seungcheol?” Jihoon repeats, before it hits him.

Jihoon feels like his whole world has spun upside-down, or at least rotated. Like the gravity that’s kept him grounded for the last few years has suddenly abdicated and he has to stuff his face into the nearest cushion to muffle his scream of “ _WHY_!”

It’s a sad testament to Jihoon’s shitty luck that of all the mob bosses in Korea, it’s Choi— _please not my kneecaps_ —Seungcheol’s toes they’ve tread on.

Did Jeonghan _know_ this?

Did he _know_ whose money they were trying to take?

Probably not, considering the intel they’d gotten was sketchy as hell and the client who’d approached them for the job had remained largely anonymous.

Usually Jihoon knows better than to accept a job unexamined. He has a complete working protocol, actually, for dealing with Jeonghan and his wacky plans, because for all his merits and eventual success, Jeonghan’s last few jobs have been, quite honestly, one fuck-up after another.

Jihoon curses and continues with his research; shifting blame won't actually help him any.

After sorting through a colourful series of GQ magazine photo shoots and a far dryer sequence of Economist profiles, Jihoon has amassed countless pages of notes and _way_ too many open tabs on his browser.

He’s not sure how much of this is fabricated and how much is true, it’s hard to say with a man like Choi Seungcheol. But here is what Jihoon has gathered so far:

Choi Seungcheol, 29-years-old (will be 30 in August), grew up in Daegu, his father (deceased) made his money in the gambling business (read as _Loan Shark_ ) and owned several book-keepers dotted through-out the city (Underground gambling dens? _Probably_ ).

Seungcheol started running his father’s enterprises when he was just 17 (Holy shit) and decided to expand on it. He was considered a wunderkind—and led a massive restructuring of the business in his first year at the helm and has since produced 45 consecutively profitable quarters for the company, previous to which it had fallen completely in the red.

His company— _Choi Industries_ —is an umbrella for all his other business ventures, that include but are not limited to: banking, broadcasting, transport, real estate, construction and tobacco.  

Jihoon both admires and resents his success on principle. Not that Jihoon _pays_ attention to the hamster wheel industry of the world, but if a guy can build something up from the ashes—it gives him hope for his own sad little life.

Although Jihoon knows not to expect it, he’s still surprised that there isn’t a single scandal associated with Choi Seungcheol’s name in the press. Either the man runs a very tight ship—or he’s intimidating enough that nobody wants to broadcast his dodgy dealings.

Most of the information Jihoon can find is your run of the mill gossip column fodder.

Seungcheol has a hanger full of private planes (why would you need more than one?), two yachts docked in St. Tropez (again, isn’t one enough?), a collection of art on loan to the fucking Louvre (Oh, fancy) and may possibly own the island of Bora Bora (Jihoon will double-check this—that can’t be right).

He has been out of the closet for a decade (OH GOD—YES!) and his preference for men only gets a blip in the press now. He attends the Met Gala every spring and the Cannes film festival every Summer, and never brings the same person twice. He looks devastating in a tux.

Jihoon can at least attest to _that_ fact being true.

Seungcheol, every source confirms, is very, very rich.

And _terrifying_ —Jihoon decides to add, shutting his laptop already feeling like there’s a target painted between his shoulder blades.

So very terrifying.

It soon becomes apparent he’s been strategically cornered by the Mafia. Not the way he would have expected, no. They haven’t surrounded his building or tapped his phone or anything, but they’ve still effectively trapped him. He can’t go back to his old crew without raising a few suspicious eyebrows, can’t head home without endangering everyone he knows and he can’t turn to the authorities without getting arrested.

He’s isolated, alone— _adrift_ , and the worst thing is…that smoking hot son of a bitch probably knew this when he let him drive off with $400,000 dollars.

He _knew_ Jihoon would have no choice but to return.

* * *

 

It’s five minutes past 11:30, and Vernon is  _still_  being kept waiting.

He shoots the assistant behind the high desk a dirty look, and briefly wonders how pissed the Captain would be if he just blew off this meeting and sent a memo instead. Vernon has  _six_  time sensitive cases on his desk and a stack of reports waiting for him back at the station, he doesn’t have time for this.

Standing, he waves his badge at the security guard and strides past the assistant, towards the corridor that leads down to a pair of massive doors. Faintly, he hears her scramble from her seat and hurry after him.

“Sir, you can’t -”

He turns to shoot her a disdainful look, one he’s perfected over time and over far,  _far_  too many interrogations. She quells instantly.

Vernon pushes the doors open, and he’s greeted by a cavernous room, a lone desk on a raised dais at the end by a bank of windows.

There’s a figure standing behind the desk, addressing someone cowering before it.

They’re too far away to overhear what’s going on, but from the looks of things, guy #2 is in deep shit.

The assistant scampers forward, trying to make it look like she didn’t just fail miserably at her job as guard dog. “Chwe Vernon, Seoul Police Department, sir,” she announces.

The figure nods, dismissing her, and the assistant shoots Vernon a glare before darting out, shutting the doors behind her. They close with a firm  _thunk,_  and Vernon swears he hears the man before the desk whimper, the sound carrying across the expanse of the room.

Vernon strolls towards the dais, taking his time to look around.

As he approaches the desk, Choi Seungcheol spares him a glance. He cuts an imposing figure, towering over the dude who’s about to be shitcanned. Vernon meets his gaze head-on, one eyebrow raised.

What? He hates being kept waiting, and this is about making a point.

It’s not as if _Seungcheol’s_ time is more important than _his_. 

The look Seungcheol spares him turns intrigued, and he nods once in greeting.

Vernon returns the nod with a small smile, settling himself onto one of the guest chairs before the desk, legs crossed. He props an elbow up against the arm rest, and rests his chin on a downturned hand.

Seungcheol redirects his attention to the unfortunate man before him.

“We’ll continue this later, you may leave.”

The man sputters something unintelligible and bows quickly before scampering out the door.

“Apologies for the delay.” Seungcheol says, voice dripping with false sweetness as he retakes his seat. “But the last 48 hours have been rather hectic since the robbery, as you can imagine. I usually don’t conduct these meetings myself, so I’ve had to make arrangements to schedule you in today when you requested it.”

Vernon tilts his head in acknowledgement. Yeah—he doesn’t want to be here either, but there you go. “Thank you for your time Mr Choi. I know you usually have one of your staff—liaise with the police department on these matters, but the captain was sure you wanted to be personally informed that we’re going to be _extending_ our investigation.”

“Is that so.” Seungcheol’s tone is dry as paper.

Vernon draws in a breath. “Yes. The robbery highlighted a few— _concerns_.”

If Seungcheol has found any of this at all surprising, he isn’t letting on. He is still gazing at Vernon, disturbingly blank.

“Nothing was taken.” Seungcheol says, in a tone that clearly adds  _you idiot_  at the end of the sentence. “All the money has been accounted for and nobody has been apprehended, so what aspect of your investigation is concerning you?”

“Our initial investigation has revealed some discrepancies, and the chief of police has requested a full report.” Vernon explains with a careless shrug.

Seungcheol leans back in his chair, a study in sharp-lined, cold-burning fury. Vernon studies his profile, the slight flaring of his nostrils, the fullness of his lips thinning in displeasure.

He suspects Choi Seungcheol has spent a lot of money tailoring himself this sharp suited, debonair businessman identity—has even fooled many people into believing in it. He’s made a career of pretending to be anyone but himself, and anyone who tries to peel back his layers isn’t going to make it to the centre without a struggle.

But Vernon sees right through him. Knows he’s just a violent, bloodthirsty thug underneath. Even now he looks like he’s using every ounce of his will power in resisting the urge to beat Vernon’s skull in with the heavy glass paperweight on his desk.

He’s _that_ kind of man.

“What kind of discrepancies?” Seungcheol asks, after Vernon had counted out two chilly minutes of silence. 

Vernon offers an apologetic smile, though he’s not feeling the slightest bit sorry. “I’m not at liberty to elaborate at this moment. But we’ll be keeping you informed as our investigation continues.”

If Seungcheol is disappointed in the lack of a straight answer, he doesn’t show it. He simply stands when Vernon does, and offers his companies full cooperation.

Vernon can't wait to nail him-though he appreciates that's a way off yet.

* * *

 

When the detective leaves, Seungcheol spins his chair towards the window and stares at the view, considering possibilities.

Problems always come in three’s. The heist was the first, the break in at HQ the second—this prolonged investigation is clearly the third.

He’s not sure what tip-off the police have gotten this time, but with the way things have been going lately he’s beginning to wonder if they even _need_ one. His activities, entrepreneurial or otherwise, have _always_ drawn the legal authorities attention, but if it’s for _another_ reason. If the cogs in his own system are turning on him….

Well—Seungcheol's going to need to tighten up his network when this investigation is over.

A quiet knock on the door interrupts his musing, and Seungcheol sits upright, faint frown marring his brow. 

“Sir?” Seungkwan whispers-mumbles once he enters the room.

“What is it now?” Seungcheol demands, his temper crackling along the edges. 

“Uh—erm, sorry to disturb you.” Seungkwan raises his hands, palms up, the universal gesture for  _don’t shoot the messenger._  “But you were right. He’s back.”

“ _Who’s_ back?” Seungcheol responds, before he cottons on to _who_ Seungkwan means. “Oh, _really_? Well—great.”

Seungcheol stands abruptly, then sits, then stands again—mind in disarray as he tries to decide how best to greet his guest.

What the fuck is he doing? Why is he so anxious?

He forces himself to remain standing and takes a calming breath, brushing out the non-existent wrinkles on his shirt.

“Uh—how do I look?” He asks Seungkwan, who looks more bemused than anything,

“ _Rich_?”

Seungcheol rolls his eyes and waves a hand. “Send him in.”

Seungkwan nods, sliding back out the door before pushing it open for the guest to enter.

There’s a second of hesitation before Biker Boy appears in the doorway and Seungcheol's chest seizes.

 _Sweet fuck_ —Seungcheol’s memories of the boy don’t do him justice. In person he’s something else; his mouth stern, jaw set, eyes hard, ass—rather generously proportioned for his size, Seungcheol thinks—all combine to form the perfect little package.

 _Biker Boy_.

Dammit—Seungcheol really _needs_ a name to go with that face, _something_ to groan out when he fantasizes about bending the guy over his desk, yanking down his jeans and spearing him with his di…

_Okay, okay—this isn’t a good time for an erection._

It’s nearly impossible to focus properly, but Seungcheol blinks rapidly and forces himself to pay attention. 

Biker Boy crosses the room, slow, careful steps that bring him closer to where Seungcheol remains standing behind his desk. His eyes dart around the space, taking everything in, likely searching for escape routes and assessing threats. Clever. Thinking ahead.

The duffle bag Seungcheol had sent him off with is clasped tightly in his right hand, his left is clenched into a fist. He appears unarmed, which was probably hard for him to do—but definitely a wise decision.

“Well, hello again. How can I help you today?” Seungcheol says, flashing on his most charming smile. He jerks his head towards the two visitor’s chairs placed before his desk before taking a seat in his own. “Finally decided to take up my offer and open a savings account with us? Are rates are very competitive.” he says, aiming for light-heartedness.

His attempt falls flat, because Biker Boy visibly stiffens, then drops the duffle at the foot of the desk.

He looks blank. Except for how he doesn’t, except for the tiniest tells Seungcheol can fish out. Whiteness around the eyes, darkness under them – has he not slept? Seungcheol can’t help but notice some movement in the lips that could be called a quiver on a lesser person.

“Stop fucking me about.” Biker Boy’s voice is low, rough, and there’s a twitch in his hands as he says it, knuckles whitening from the strength of that clench. “Why are you doing this? What—what do you _want_ from me?”

He sounds so wary, Seungcheol has to wonder what the kid's criminal background is. Prostitution, he'd wager; possibly with a short stint in Juvenile detention since those guys tend to be the most paranoid when it comes to unexpected generosity in Seungcheol’s experience.

He can’t imagine the Biker Boy’s childhood was full of rainbows and puppies either.

There was probably a council flat, graffiti and brick and the urine-stench of the stairwells, water for breakfast when there wasn’t any milk, poured over cornflakes and swallowed with cotton-tongued staunchness. Trousers and ambitions too big for his hometown.

Seungcheol can picture it so easily, all too familiar with the art of cultivating aspirations.

He knows better than to mention this however—there’s a place for theatrics, and this isn’t it.

Ignoring his schedule for the day, Seungcheol rises from his chair, adjusts his jacket, then rounds the table. He tries to keep his body language casual, non-threatening as he perches himself off the edge of it, near his visitor. 

“I didn’t get to introduce myself last time we met. I’m--” Seungcheol begins, and Biker Boy cuts in, “I _know_ who you are.”

When Seungcheol gives him a questioning look, Biker Boy swallows, then shrugs.

“I researched you. Trying to figure out _why_ you’d just _let_ me walk out with all that money.” Biker Boy’s voice is low, but the words are bitten out. The look he turns on Seungcheol is probably supposed to be hostile but it just looks desperate. The look of a man adrift in chaos, clawing for order. “And for the record, I didn’t know it was your bank when I accepted the job. I don’t think any of us did. Not—not that it matters anymore.”

Seungcheol gives his Biker Boy a slow, deliberate once over, considering his next move. A man who knows what he’s up against, fears it with every fibre in his body and is ready to face it head on like that, _that's_ a man worth having. 

“Right, then,” Seungcheol says, clapping his hands together. He smiles to take the edge off. “Have lunch with me?”

Biker Boy pulls a face that knocks about ten years off his age. He blinks up at Seungcheol for a second, a deer in the headlights, lost.  

“ _W-what_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Took a while to update because I have so many WIP to update too.   
> 2) Eugh. I really don't want to slowburn with the Jicheol smut, but it looks like I might have to.  
> 3) I hope the pacing is okay. Writing from so many different POV is hard.   
> 4) Was going to do some Meanie hurt/comfort smut...but decided to keep that for later XD  
> Hope you enjoy the update! Feedback always appreciated!


	6. As long as I got my suit and tie

Jihoon accepts Seungcheol’s invitation to lunch with him, because _honestly_ , it seems like the only safe thing to do, and Seungcheol takes him to  _Pierre Gagnaire_ , one of the fanciest restaurants in Seoul.

“I don’t think they’re going to let me in.” Jihoon murmurs, combing his fingers distractedly through his hair. “I’m not exactly _dressed_ appropriately.”

Seungcheol makes a noise, quick and careless, like it's not important.

As they stroll past a queue at least fifty people long, Jihoon recalls reading an article about how you need a reservation six-months in advance to even  _hope_  to get a table. Not that it applies to Seungcheol, _obviously_ , who swans through the front door like he owns the place.

On second thought—he probably _does_.

It’s showboating, of course, bringing Jihoon here and Jihoon can’t help but feel radically undressed to be dining in such a place—never mind the split lip and black eye he's still nursing from the other day.

Competitive smirk on his face, Seungcheol gestures after the maitre’d, who leads them to a private section, a single table for two laid out.

It’s a taster menu, so they don’t have to order, and after a bottle of wine is brought to the table by a stuttering sommelier, they find themselves evaluating one another from across the table.

“So,” Seungcheol begins, lifting his glass. “You know who I am. The _polite_ thing to do would be to introduce yourself next. Tell me your name, a little about yourself. _”_

“Yes, that _would_ be the polite thing to do.” Jihoon retorts drily. Then leaves it there.

He focuses his attention on the vast array of silverware around his place setting instead; he’s always loved the idea of being able to afford to eat in a place like this, but it’s intimidating as fuck.

Almost as intimidating as the man seated across from him.

Seungcheol leans back, eye narrowed. He swirls the wine in his glass, raising it to inhale a whiff. Satisfied, he takes a sip.

“I was just hoping to refer to you with something other than—the man who tried to steal from me.”

Jihoon picks up his glass to take a sip, the Malbec sliding warm and velvety down his throat.

“Tried _and_ succeeded.” He says, setting his glass down before the tremors in his hand give him away.

“Are you _forgetting_ that I let you take that $400,00?” Seungcheol says mildly, looking at Jihoon with a gaze far sharper than his voice.

“Oh, I wasn’t talking about that. I was talking about your watch.” Jihoon says, pointedly raising his other arm.

He tilts his wrist with a flourish so Seungcheol can see the chunky Rolex he’d slipped off his wrist earlier.

Seungcheol’s eyes turn hooded, but no less sharp. “When did you—”

“When you stepped out of the car.” Jihoon interrupts, drumming his fingers on the watch face, admiring the craftmanship. He turns the watch around a couple of times on his wrist, feeling out it’s weight and edges. “I was going to pick your wallet too—but then I’d have to pay for lunch.”

Outwardly, Seungcheol still doesn’t react, but Jihoon feels Seungcheol’s eyes sliding over him. The weight of an unspoken threat presses against his skin, but it’s hardly a dissuasive sensation. It’s more like killing two birds with one stone: a chance to rile up this arrogant, rich prick that’s accompanied by the smug sense of victory that comes when Seungcheol gives him an approving nod and tugs his shirtsleeve over his now naked wrist.

“I’ll admit. That was impressive.” Seungcheol says, his hooded, serious eyes belying the flippancy of his tone. Fingers tapping on the table, he smiles, equal parts charming and distant, just a little vicious. “Not many people have the balls to steal from me—once, much less twice. Was the $400,000 not enough for you?”

Jihoon shifts his shoulders, dismissive. “I’m opportunistic. I take every opportunity I see, because who _knows_ when I’ll get it again.”

Holding Jihoon’s gaze, Seungcheol takes another sip from his glass, reclining in his seat. “Well, I’m glad to hear that. Because I have a unique opportunity for you.”

Quirking an inquisitive brow, Jihoon unclasps the watch, preparing to hand it back—only for Seungcheol to stop him.

“Keep it.” He says, making a lofty, dismissive gesture with his hand. “It’s yours now. You’ve earned it.”

Jihoon searches for something more to say, but before he finds it, the waiter returns with their first course.

Jihoon thought at the time that humouring Seungcheol wasn't such a bad idea. Especially if he got a nice juicy steak out of the deal, a luxury he hasn't permitted himself in some time. But steak is apparently too uncouth for this place.

Instead, they’re served some mousse _thingy_ as a first course.

Jihoon doesn’t expect to enjoy it, but when he digs in—it’s fucking amazing. It’s light and foamy and delicate on his tongue and he cleans out the fragile glass cup it arrives in in short order. 

“You've already proven what you're capable of, so I’ll cut out the bullshit, then,” Seungcheol says, waving for the course to be taken away.

He leans forward, eyes intent, and Jihoon thinks he understands now how Seungcheol is so successful at what he does. He has this magnetic, charismatic quality about him. “I want you.” Seungcheol says.

Brows raised, Jihoon gapes. “That’s….” A little more direct than he’s used to. “….very flattering.”

Seungcheol treats him to a long, slow once-over, somehow managing to look casual while staring at Jihoon, contemplative. 

“From the minute I laid my eyes on you, I knew you’d be the perfect fit….” he purrs, then voice slipping back to its perfunctory, no-nonsense business tone, he adds. “…as my new head of security.”

“Huh?”

Seungcheol taps his fingers against his wine glass once, twice, as if he has all the time in the world. 

“The heist at the bank and—some other _recent_ events have highlighted the need for a complete re-haul of my security arrangements. I need someone trustworthy to keep their ear on the ground, to watch my back and protect my assets.”

“Hold up—you’re a—,” Jihoon pauses to glance around. He leans forward in his chair and drops his voice into a confiding whisper. “You’re a _mob boss_. The biggest I know. Don’t you have plenty of people protecting your ass?”

“Assets.” Seungcheol corrects.

“Assets—ass—same thing.” Jihoon dismisses quickly, “Aren’t there already people in your organization you employ for that specific purpose?”

Seungcheol runs his tongue over his teeth, contemplative, his eyes taking in the flow of people around them, unfocused and all-seeing. “I used to think so. But now—I’m not so sure.”

“What makes you think I’m the right candidate? I did try and steal from you less than 48 hours ago. I just stole your Rolex.”

Seungcheol gives him a crooked smile. “True. But I’m not looking for a guy with a squeaky clean reputation—just someone who can cast an evaluative eye over how I’m managing things and tell me where the potential leaks are. An outsider, a neutral party who doesn’t have any ties to the company.”

Jihoon wrinkles his nose in disbelief. “That’s stupid.”

“Is it?” Seungcheol says, a flash of anger there and gone in his eyes, like lightning in the distance. An oncoming storm crackles in the air between them. “I spend most of my time surrounded by people who tell me what I want to hear. It’s not the truth—it’s not reliable, not objective. Try maintaining an empire when all the experts you hire don’t want to share their expertise because they’re afraid. I need someone who’ll be honest, someone I can trust. That’s where you come in.”

“And you trust me?” Jihoon says, taken aback. He’d come prepared to beg for his life, maybe charm Seungcheol into showing some leniency, not to be asked to become his security consultant.

“You possess qualities I admire,” Seungcheol says, his eyes flickering over Jihoon's body again before looking away. “Loyalty being one of them. And frankly, I think you’re wasted on your current company. Putting your neck on the line for low level heists, that’s not your calling.”

Even though it’s a compliment, Jihoon thinks of denying it. He thinks of saying,  _don’t underestimate my crew—_ because as far as Seungcheol knows, it’s just been one failed heist. So for Seungcheol to sound like he has Jihoon's number—is grating.

He can’t deny however that he likes the idea of branching out.

He's never questioned his position as second in command in Jeonghan’s crew, even though they haven’t always seen eye to eye on certain planning aspects and most of his ideas get shot down, Jihoon’s continued to follow his lead. But after seeing himself through the eyes of a stranger, he feels like the piece that doesn't fit. He’s a fork among spoons, a book in a pile of magazines; if he runs with a crew that consistently pick up jobs against his advice, can he truly belong with them?

In the end, Jihoon just shrugs.

Their second course arrives, a pair of perfectly seared Emperor scallops. 

Aware that Seungcheol is still watching him intently, Jihoon picks up his knife and fork, takes his first bite, and thinks. Seungcheol picks up his own cutlery, tucking in as well with perfect teeth and perfect table manners.

Jihoon can’t help but watch the way he holds his fork. He has big hands; wide palms, strong, thick fingers. Jihoon wishes he hadn't noticed.

“First,” Jihoon states, having made up his mind, “What’s in this for me?”

“Mmm, a man after my own heart.” Seungcheol pulls out his phone, makes a few quick taps, and hands it over to him. “I think this salary should suffice. You can have it paid in instalments or as a lump sum. It’s up to you.”

Reading the phone, Jihoon can feel his eyebrows rise of their own volition.

“That’s…a generous offer,” he allows.

It’s more than fucking  _generous,_ it’s basically a bribe.

“I pay for only the best,” Seungcheol says, and the seductive timbre in his voice is back. “And that $400,000 you already have.” he shrugs, then smiles slowly. “Consider it your walking around money.”

Jihoon slides the phone back across the table to Seungcheol before polishing off the scallops. A waiter appears at his side to remove the empty plate, then returns with the third course, a Guinea fowl parfait with chutney. 

At length, Jihoon says, “I’m not going to ever share the names of my accomplices from the heist. If that’s something you plan on angling for in the future—you can forget it.”

“Sure, kitten,” Seungcheol replies, and from his expression, he knows he’s got the canary. Picking up a fresh fork and knife, he starts on the parfait. “Wouldn’t expect any less.”

Jihoon takes note of which utensils Seungcheol uses for the parfait, then mimics him.

“And I get to do things my way. I’m not here to be another cog in your machine. Which means—sometimes I make decisions that I don’t run past you, but it’s for the best and you’ll just have to suck it.”

“Goes without saying,” Seungcheol agrees. “You want to do things your own way, that’s fine with me. As long as you keep my interests safe and secure, I’ll happily _suck it.”_

Jihoon almost chokes on nothing.

He isn't sure what shows on his face, but it makes Seungcheol grin.

“So, what’s it going to be?”

Given what he knows about this man so far, Jihoon isn’t making the mistake of taking anything about him at face value no matter how generous an offer he’s making.

But—he’s spent the better part of the last 48 hours under a cloud of apprehension, waiting for the moment Seungcheol would decide to extract his pound of flesh. He may as well settle the debt now and have done with it. “Okay. I’m in.”

Seungcheol grins, delighted. “Will you tell me your name now?”

“No.”

The new smile on Seungcheol’s face is not friendly in the least.

“Why not?” His tone is borderline confrontational.

“You’re used to getting what you want—aren’t you?” Jihoon asks, unimpressed.

Seungcheol brightens inexplicably. “Of course.”

“Well—Too bad.” Jihoon says, raising his chin. “Some things _can’t_ be bought.”

Satisfied, and more than slightly smug, Jihoon leans back in his chair, unable to stop the sly smile from creeping up his face.

“Ya know—,” Seungcheol begins, running his tongue over his bottom front teeth. “I could _make_ you give me your name. I have _ways_.” he says, his voice dangerously soft.

“Is being a spoilt little brat one of them?” Jihoon quips, just to see Seungcheol’s face twist.

But the man’s expression doesn’t morph into the incandescent rage Jihoon expects, it smooths into a detached, blank mask; something more potent and infinitely more dangerous.

Tension gathers in Jihoon's muscles, like some part of his brain is expecting a fight. Any second now the restaurant will empty of people, Seungcheol will nod to the waiter, and someone will garrotte Jihoon with a length of wire. Or something suitably savage.

But Seungcheol doesn’t make an overt gesture. Silence stretches between them for a few moments, and Jihoon flinches at the sudden ‘click’ of Seungcheol’s cutlery hitting the plate.

His experience is telling him: _you’ve gone too far._

His instincts are telling him:  _danger; stay the fuck away from this guy_.

His body is telling him—well, Jihoon prefers not to think about it. He must have gotten his wires crossed at some point because he should _not_ be getting turned on right now.  

After a beat spent studying him, Seungcheol says, "You've got balls." And between one blink and the next, the half-realized threat of violence is gone. "I do like that in a guy."

Jihoon snorts.

“However,” Seungcheol interrupts a bit snidely, “It’s hard to have a business arrangement with someone when I don’t know their _name_. How am I to introduce you?”

Jihoon blinks and looks away when he realizes his gaze has been lingering on Seungcheol’s shoulders. “I dunno. Pick something generic. Like Mr X, or Mr Blue. You’re not getting my real name because you haven’t _earned_ it.”

Seungcheol looks insulted. “Haven’t I? I’m paying you a generous sum of money. I gave you my Rolex.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes, waving off Seungcheol’s chagrined huff, “Correction: I _stole_ this Rolex, and I’ll be _earning_ that money—so technically you didn’t give me anything.”

Seungcheol pouts—like he’s _five_. He drops his eyes to the table, then back up to meet Jihoon’s. “I’m buying you lunch.”

“You call this lunch? I’m still hungry. Where’s my steak?” Jihoon deadpans, and Seungcheol, evidently taken by surprise, laughs.

It makes him look younger, carefree.

Jihoon doesn’t know whether the dimples, the crinkling in the corners of the eyes and the sudden explosion of overgrown puppy is genuine or exaggerated, but it’s damned effective. 

 _Too_ effective.

 _Dammit_ —Jihoon really shouldn’t be getting soft fuzzies for Mafia Kingpins. That’s just ten kinds of unacceptable.

Jihoon presses his lips together, unable to fully suppress his smile. “You may refer to me as Mr Lee. That’s all you’re getting. Any _other_ information about me—you’ll have to earn.”

Seungcheol hums thoughtfully, before conceding. “Fair enough.”

Jihoon’s eyes drop to table, and resists the urge to fiddle with his napkin anxiously. “So, when do I start this _role_?”

“Today.” Seungcheol answers simply, tossing his own napkin down on the table. He gestures to one of the wait staff discreetly that they are finishing up. “If you don’t have prior engagements that is.”

“Oh, uh—no. You were the only thing on my to do list today.”

 _“Was I.”_ Seungcheol drawls, lips curving into a slow smile.

Jihoon registers the double meaning then, and has to force himself not to blush.

“What’s the first order of business?” He asks, steering the conversation to safer waters.

“Shopping.”

“Shopping?” Jihoon asks, feeling his eyebrows climbing up. “Right. And that’s secret code _for_?”

“For _shopping_.” Seungcheol drawls. There is a hint of humour in his voice, some private amusement Jihoon isn't privy to. “We need to get you a suit.”

Jihoon gives him the full-fledged nose-wrinkle-raised-eyebrow look of incredulity that says Seungcheol had sure as hell  _better_  be kidding. “Oh, no—I don’t. Suits—I don’t.”

“Oh, yes—you will. Suits—you will.” Seungcheol parrots back.

"I don't think I've got the right build for a suit," Jihoon says, not the least bit wistful.

Okay, maybe a tiny bit, because here is Seungcheol, sitting there with shoulders like an ode to male physique, and Jihoon's not bad-looking nor self-conscious (most of the time), but he's not blind and he's got a mirror, thanks.

“I don’t have the right proportions.” He elaborates at Seungcheol’s annoyingly patient look.

"No, I'm afraid I must stop you right there," Seungcheol says, "you're quite wrong, you see. It's about making whatever proportions you have look better." He looks Jihoon up and down, slow, appreciative. "And yours are quite magnificent as they are."

Jihoon contemplates arguing further, but Seungcheol’s smile is sensuous, exciting and laden with promise and forbidden fruit and Jihoon realises this is one thing he won’t be able to wiggle his way out of.

* * *

 

“Hey. Hey you—wake up.”

Jun opens his eyes. For a moment, blinking against the early morning light, he isn't sure where he is. Then he turns his head to find man staring at him—a man with dark eyes, jet black hair slanted over his brow, and a warm smile on his face. He’s gorgeous, mysterious—he flicks Jun on the forehead.

"Oh, it’s _you_." Jun says, rubbing the spot with a finger. "Also, ouch."

“Good morning!” His captor says, more jovial than he's got any goddamn right to be, though his eyes _are_ a little bloodshot from the lack of sleep.

“Dude, _please,”_ Jun whines _,_ throwing an arm over his face _, “_ The sun is hardly up yet. I need more sleep.”

“But I’ve got a new _plan_.” His passenger says excitedly.

Jun raises an eyebrow at the man from under his hand, looking mildly entertained.

“Stop the fucking presses! Could it be? Mr Indecisive knows what he wants to do?” He says, voice still heavy with sleep and sarcasm, the latter of which seems to go right over his captor’s head.

“Yep.”

The man looks—smug. Pleased with himself and the world.

It looks good on him.

“Awesome.” Jun grins, giving him a thumbs up, before rolling over onto his side. “Tell me all about it—in three hours.”

“No. Hey!” The man says, shoving at his shoulder. “You’ve slept enough. I need you to start driving again.”

Oh. It’s another one of _those_ days.

Jun turns his head and gives the man his best determined face. In response the man shoves the butt of the gun against Jun’s temple.

After a pause that lasts a second too long, Jun says, “I forgot you had a gun.”

“I thought you had. C’mon—lets hit the road.”

“ _Fine_.” Jun sighs.

He would have liked to say no, would have liked to tell the guy to fuck off. But being pissed at a man with a gun was like being pissed at the weather, which is to say that it requires more energy than it is worth and is, ultimately, pointless.

He shifts upright in his seat and starts toeing on his shoes with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. He must be doing it to slow, because he gets another jab in his ribs with the gun.

Yeah, definitely one of those days.

Once they are on the road again, Jun gains back a little of his usual countenance, glancing at his passenger in the rear-view mirror.

“So—where are we going?”

“Daerim-dong.” The man says at length.

“Oh, cool.” Jun says, nodding before he thinks better of it. It takes a moment for the implications to sink in. When they finally _do_ —he swerves a little as he loses his focus, then quickly drags the car back to driving in a straight line. “C-China town?”

His captor meets his gaze in the mirror. “Yeah. You have a problem with that?”

“No, no, I just….” _Am in possession of a healthy sense of self-preservation—_ Jun doesn’t say.

The problem with new beginnings is that, one way or another, decisions and options are always informed and influenced by the past. And Jun has made a lot of waves in his past life—a lot of enemies. Some of whom may or may not be still residing in Daerim-dong: Seoul’s unofficial China Town.

Jun says nothing for a few beats, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel as he tries to recall the names and faces of people he needs to avoid.

There’s _a lot_ of people.

“ _Do we have to?_ ” He croaks out eventually. “I mean, why do you need to go there?”

“Uhm. Because my cousin lives there.” His captor says, seemingly amused by Jun’s nervous disposition.

“Really? Is your cousin a member of the triads who had his identity stolen for a period of three months in 2016 and ended up losing his wife, his pet peacock and his priceless collection of Ming Dynasty vases as a result and is so imbittered by the experience he’s offered a $2 million dollar reward for the perpetrator to be brought to him dead or alive?”

There is a significant pause from the back seat.

“That’s weirdly specific.” His passenger says, and his eyes are wide in the mirror, like he thinks  _Jun_  is the crazy one.

“Answer the question!” Jun snaps.

The guy's mouth, which had been open around a retort, falls shut. He blinks at Jun in astonishment for a second and then, in a much smaller voice, says, “No. Not that I’m aware of. Triads are a little of his league to be honest. He’s a lower class of criminal—backdoor gambling scene kind of thing. We were pretty close growing up, cause we were both the black sheep’s of the family, so I’m hoping he’ll help me out. Even though we didn’t part on the best of terms.”

“Hmm.” Jun isn't sure whether he should be amused or take notes for future reference. “Alright. I guess we can go. As long we don’t hang around and meet the _friendly_ locals.”

There’s another long pause from the back seat.

“Are you _familiar_ with the Triads?” His passenger says, sounding cautiously intrigued.

“No—no.” Jun mumbles, concentrating on merging onto the highway. “I just hear they’re a troublesome lot that hold grudges is all.”

His passenger levels him a sceptical look, but thankfully doesn’t pursue the issue.

* * *

 

As Minghao predicted, Cousin Jackson isn’t happy to see him.

He’s even less thrilled when he sees Minghao’s hostage.

“Who the fuck is this? Your boyfriend.”

It’s Jackson asking the question, looking between Minghao and Jun with mild confusion.

Minghao debates letting him hang on to the pleasant misconception. He eventually decides he's not going to get a better reaction later than he is now, so says, "He’s my hostage.”

“ _Hostage_?” Jackson echoes incredulously.

“Hi, I’m Jun, nice to meet you.” Jun says, stepping forward to shake Jackson’s hand. Seeing as Jackson hadn’t even offered his hand in the first place doesn’t seem to stop Jun from shaking it anyway.  

“I’m also an Uber driver when I’m not being held captive.” Jun says jovially. Stepping back and shoving his hands into his pockets, he spares a glance around Jackson's apartment. “Nice place you have here by the way. Do you mind me asking how much the rent is? I saw a for lease sign down the road and I can totally picture myself living around here. If I survive my hostage experience that is.”

Minghao can't decide if he sounds cheerful, sarcastic, psychotic or all of the above, but whatever it is, Minghao wishes he would to tone it down. Jackson’s looking increasingly uncomfortable by his presence, and levels Minghao a look as if to say: _‘What the fuck?’_

“Yes, uhm—funny story. The job I was on went south, and I jumped into the back of this guy’s car. He’s been driving me around since, cause I’m sort of on the run right now.” Minghao puts in, not wanting the situation to be misrepresented.

“From what—" Jackson snaps his mouth shut and gives him a suspicious look. “Please, _please_ tell me you had nothing to do with that bank robbery the other day.”

“You heard about that?” Minghao asks, not hedging so much as assessing Jackson's reaction.

“Of course I heard about it you idiot.” Jackson groans, pressing his palms against his eyes. “Everyone’s been talking about the raving group of lunatics that tried to rob Choi Seungcheol’s bank. What the fuck possessed you to try and steal from the most ruthless mob boss in the country?”

“Choi Seungcheol?” Minghao glances up.

The name doesn't mean anything to him, but that isn't exactly surprising. At twenty-two, he's been in Korea for less than a year, and while he's been keeping tabs on the goings and comings of the criminal community here for longer than that, there aren't always names attached to the stories of past jobs that get told.

“I have no idea who Choi Seungcheol is, Jackson. I just agreed to the job because I needed money and I was told it was going to be a milk run.”

“A milk run?” Jackson scoffs, “Nothing involving Choi Seungcheol is a milk run.”

Somewhere behind them, Jun pipes in, "Is this the same Choi Seungcheol who owns that Casino Chain? Because if it is, let me tell you—he is _not_ a nice guy. Don’t even _think_ about counting cards at his Casino’s. Not that I would ever do that or anything."

Jackson shoots an irritated look over Minghao's shoulder. “Seriously. Even your _Uber_ driver knows more than you Minghao. This is bad—this is really, really bad. I told you that crew you were running with was bad news, and now Choi Seungcheol has probably got his hounds on your scent. I don’t want them on my doorstep. I don’t _need_ him as an enemy.” He says, already moving past Minghao, towards the door.

He opens it and stands aside, his intention crystal clear: _leave_.

Minghao understands, after everything that has happened, why Jackson would be wary of taking even the slightest risk to compromise what he's gained here, but they’re _family_.

That _has_ to mean something.  

“I don’t have anywhere to go.” Minghao says, the words clawing their way through the block in his throat. “I came to you because I need somewhere to lay low for a while.”

“Lay low? In Seoul?” Jackson asks, his nostrils flaring with disbelief. “Choi Seungcheol owns this city. He has eyes and ears everywhere. There is literally nowhere you can lay low. Not from him.”

“Jackson— _please_. You gotta help me.” Minghao pleads, even though the answer is already all but spelled out.

“Look,” Jackson snaps, but he's lost the sharpest edge of his anger. “We’re family, so I’m not going to rat you out. But it can’t be seen that I’ve helped you either. I got myself to think about and I’m just hoping whoever Choi Seungcheol sends, they overlook that we’re related.”

Minghao grits his teeth, turning to look outside. The endless blue landscape of the cloudless sky does little to calm him. He pushes the anger down; this isn't the time or the place.

“Fine.” He says with lingering ill grace. “Thanks for nothing.”

 

* * *

 

“No offence, but your cousin Jackson’s an _ass_. When I move here—I will not be playing friendly neighbours with him and bringing him casseroles.”

Minghao picks at his lower lip absently before speaking. “He did what he had to.”

Jun gives him a sideways look. “Did he? Jesus—your expectations on loyalty are depressing. My family would never hang me out to dry, even after all the trouble I caused them, they still send me jumpers at Christmas.”

They are crossing the road, heading back to where they’d parked the car, when Minghao realizes they are being followed.

Surrounded, more like. One coming up from behind, one across the street, two waiting up ahead. They aren't being subtle about it, and Minghao reconsiders his first thought of being followed. This is an ambush.

"We’re being followed," Minghao says, voice low and tense.

Jun actually takes a moment to look self-conscious, but it passes quickly.

“Where?” He says, his eyes scanning the passers-by, trying to see what Minghao is seeing, but for all his smarts, he’s still just an Uber driver who lacks the training and experience.

Minghao bites the inside of his lip to keep from cursing. "The dude behind us in a leather jacket, the woman across the street wearing jeans and a white blouse, two guys ahead, maroon shirt and a green tee. Pay attention to the body language, the way they stand, what their clothes hide and the way the woman holds her handbag. They're all armed."

To his credit, Jun does not immediately crane his neck to look behind him. He keeps his cool and continues walking. "You think kind Cousin Jackson tipped them off?"

"Does it matter right now?" Minghao whispers harshly. He has an inkling it was, but in the scheme of things, it wouldn't be the worst thing Jackson could have done.

“Okay. So what are we going to do?” Jun murmurs.

Minghao takes a second to think about that; he has a gun, and a knife strapped to his leg. Jun is unarmed. There isn't much he can do without tipping his hand, so Minghao lets the map of Daerim-dong unfold in his mind, the streets around them becoming escape routes.

"We'll see what they want," he says. "It might be nothing. If it's not nothing, you let me handle it, and you run.”

“Uh, how about we _both_ just run?”

Minghao keeps his eyes focused ahead, on Maroon shirt in the distance. “They’re not going to kill us dude. Gunning us down in broad daylight would be exceptionally stupid. They probably just want to talk."

Jun is opening his mouth to say something suitably swaggering in response, when the first gunshot stops him.

In an instant, they both have their hands on one another, tugging each other down behind a stationary car and out of the line of fire. There is screaming, members of the public running for cover, but those people needn’t worry; the bullets clearly aren’t meant for them.

“Fuck,” Minghao says, as the next two shots send chips of concrete flying over their heads.

“Looks like they _are_ exceptionally stupid.” Jun says, looking at him sharply.

Carefully, Minghao cranes his neck out, trying to get a location on the shooters and gets nothing for his efforts but a bullet whistling past his head, way too close. “Shit.”

“Well they’re definitely shooting at us.” Jun snarks.

Minghao fumbles in his jacket pocket and shoves the car keys into the Jun’s hands. “Look. Just go—get out of here. I’m sorry I got you mixed up in this. I’ll handle it,” He says, and stands up, holding his hands in the air.

“What are you doing?” Jun hisses, dragging him back down again.

“I’m creating a distraction—” Minghao hisses back, sparing him a sideways glance. “So you can get out of here. No sense in us _both_ being killed for something I did.”

Jun seems to think about that for a minute, leant back on his hands looking for all the world like he is sitting somewhere thousands of miles away, and not under the threat of immediate peril.

Minghao knew there was something he liked about him.

“That’s very noble of you and all—but wouldn’t running be better than handing yourself over to these guys?”

“Uhm,” Minghao thinks for a moment. “Yeah. That’s a good idea actually.”

Then he runs for it.

* * *

 

Minghao’s always wanted a boyfriend.

The problem is that Minghao and relationships do not mix well.

He is not uncompromising, nor is he repressed or commitment-phobic or high-maintenance.

Minghao is just  _busy_. A thief’s life is nomadic and Minghao has spent most of his travelling from place to place, working irregular hours and coming home with bruised knuckles and split lips. Boyfriends never seem able to make peace with this. As soon as they realise that Minghao is never around and that work always comes first for him, they inevitably get all clingy and possessive in reaction.

Minghao wonders if the fact that his hostage is still keeping pace with him as they run, chased by gunmen, is an early warning sign of ‘clingy’ behaviour. He supposes it would be a little unfair of him to assume so.

“Stop running! They aren’t after you!” Minghao shouts, over the rushing wind.

“Are you mad? This is a normal day at the office! No sweat!” Jun calls back, as they split apart to run around a streetlamp, dodging startled pedestrians.

Minghao trips on an uneven slab, but before he can faceplant on the pavement, Jun is yanking his arm up and dragging him along. “Kiss the floor later dude.”

They dart down an alleyway, which is dark and narrow and takes them out right by a deserted pedestrian bridge that stretches across the river.

They run halfway across it, pausing in the middle to look behind them, both panting for breath.

Minghao can hear shouting coming from the alley.

“They’re still on us,” he says and is about to run again, but Jun stops him.

“So we switch tactics,” He says, and to Minghao’s alarm, he swings one leg over the railing of the bridge. “We jump.”

Minghao lurches forwards, grabs handfuls of Jun’s jacket and holds on tight, saying, “What the fuck do you think this is? We aren’t Thelma and Louise.”

Jun swings his other leg over the railing and then stands at the edge, looking back at Minghao over his shoulder.

“We can be whoever we want to be. And we can hide under the bridge until they’ve passed. The current’s not that strong. We’ll be fine,” he says, casual, as if they are discussing dinner plans.

“You’re insane.”

Jun’s logic is entirely conditional, full of holes, so Minghao is not really sure why he follows the man over the railings. He is not sure why he stands there beside him and lets Jun grip his hand, or why his heart beats so fast at the sight of the drop below them, when Minghao has been far higher before and barely felt a tremor.

“This is stupid,” Minghao says. But Jun just winks at him.

“That’s right,” He says, and then he jumps, taking Minghao down with him.

They land feet first and the water hits like glass, breaking around them.

Minghao surfaces again in a gasping rush of cold air. Then they are swimming together against the current, Jun urging them in the direction of one of the huge stone pillars that hold up the bridge. When they reach it, Minghao forces his wet fingers into the gritty gaps in the brickwork, clinging on. He can still hear shouting, distantly, over the echoing slosh of the water, as the voices pass overhead, heading away from them. They huddle beside one another, drenched and shaking with adrenaline.

“Now what?” Minghao asks, when he has finished coughing and gasping for air.

“We wait until we’re sure that they’ve gone,” Jun says. He sounds a little breathless, laughter lingering in his voice.

 _Insane_ , Minghao reminds himself.

“You’re not really an Uber driver, are you?” Minghao asks after a moment's reflection, not entirely sure if getting into this topic with Jun is a good idea.

“Of course I am.” Jun says, fluttering waterlogged eyelashes at him. “I have a license and everything.”

Minghao shakes his soaking wet fringe out of his face, smirking. “You’re _way_ to chill about this. I’ve been waving a gun in your face since we met and you’ve hardly flinched. And now we’ve just been chased by armed gunmen working for the ‘most ruthless mob boss in Korea’ and you couldn’t care less.”

“Ah—well—I didn’t _always_ used to be an Uber Driver.” Jun admits, and Minghao has no trouble believing it.

Whose car did he jump into? Who _is_ this guy.

Minghao hauls himself a little closer, his hands fumbling clumsily along the wall as he stares at Jun, not quite sure what to think.

“What did you used to be?”

Jun makes a thoughtful sound at the back of his throat.

“Lots of things, depending on my mood really.” He shoves a hand under the water, into his jacket pocket, and pulls out a wallet, shaking the excess droplets off it. “Today for instance, I think I might enjoy being—Wang Jackson.” He says, flipping the wallet open to reveal an ID card with Jackson’s winning smile.

Minghao stares at it for a long moment, refusing to believe what he is seeing and appalled at the apparent state of his observational skills. How had Jun stolen Jackson’s wallet without him noticing? He looks up, giving Jun a sceptical look.

“When I shook his hand.” Jun explains, flipping the wallet shut and tucking it in Minghao’s front jacket pocket. “I figured he wasn’t going to be much help, so I decided to help myself. Besides, we’re going to need a new identity if we’re going to avoid Choi Seungcheol.”

“We?” Minghao snorts, amused despite himself. “Since when has there been a we?”

Jun affects a pout. “Oh, I see how it is. You just wanted me for my car.”

Minghao laughs, dropping his head to rest on Jun’s shoulder. “You’re unbelievable. You’re crazy. You’re…..”

Just my type, actually.

* * *

 

By the time Seungcheol’s limousine drops him off outside the boutique, Jihoon has changed his mind again and tries to explain that he really doesn’t need a suit to do his job. Seungcheol just laughs and says he absolutely fucking will if he doesn’t want to look like a criminal on sight, and that he'll be back in a couple of hours.

So here Jihoon stands, about to waste Seungcheol’s credit card in a 'full-service gentleman's boutique', whatever the hell that is.

To make matters worse, he’s not even sure if he wore _underwear_ today.

"Mr. Lee?" a smooth voice from Jihoon's left greets him as he opens the door.

"Um…" Jihoon forgot to look at the card Seungcheol handed him, but he’s pretty sure his own name isn’t on it. “Uh, yeah.”

"My name is Baekhyun, and I will be assisting you today." The man steps out from behind a marble desk and holds out a hand.

His suit looks tailor-made and he's groomed to within an inch of his life. Jihoon feels ridiculously underdressed in ripped jeans, a shirt that was in pretty good shape three years ago but is looking worse for the wear now, and with a mess of oil still ground in under his fingernails from helping Jeonghan change the tires on their bikes last week.

Baekhyun only _just_ manages not to flinch from Jihoon's hand. "Mr Choi called ahead and explained everything," he continues.

"He did—?"

Jihoon doesn’t remember Seungcheol making any kind of calls. And how much exactly does this guy know?

"We’ve worked with Mr Choi in the past,” Baekhyun explains, trying not to look at Jihoon like he is something sticky scraped off the bottom of his shoe and doing a rather shitty job of it. “We’re aware of what he likes. We'll take care of it."

"Right." Jihoon has no idea what that means, but he goes with the flow.

"I think we'll start with the manicure," Baekhyun says, looking pointedly away from Jihoon's hands, "And then we can get the tailor started before you have your facial and haircut."

"My facial?" Jihoon knows that’s something girls have with their friends, so it doesn't sound like something he is all that keen to try.

"Oh, yes." Baekhyun starts towards a black-lacquered door. "Right this way, Mr. Lee."

The manicurist is about four-foot two, even shorter than him, and has the tiniest hands Jihoon has ever seen on a grown woman. He knows she's not a child, though, because it's clear from her face that she's _a hundred and ten years old._

"Sit, sit," she says, and leads him to a black leather chair with wide, high arms.

"This is Mi-Ja," Baekhyun introduces her. "She'll fix you right up." He slips back out the door, leaving Jihoon with the tiny woman.

Mi-Ja settles herself on a wheeled stool, and picks up his hands, examining them and making little tutting noises. "Mechanic," she mutters, "I have just the thing."

Leaving Jihoon to wonder what the hell Seungcheol's gotten him into, she disappears behind a curtain, reappearing a moment later with two glass bowls of bright blue, sudsy water.

"Soak," she says, placing the bowls into little depressions on the chair's arms, and nodding curtly, she adds, "Relax."

The soaking is easy. The relaxing, _not so much._

It takes less time than he'd imagined for the blue liquid to soak away the grime, and when it's done, Mi-Ja wheels back and forth between his hands, scrubbing, clipping, and filing—all of which is much more painful then he'd expected—and then massaging him up to the elbows with a spice-scented lotion, which makes all the pain more than worth it.

“Ohh—you have very pretty hands.” She coos, holding up his wrists for examination. “See—not a mechanic anymore.”

Before he can get properly flustered over that compliment, Baekhyun returns, ushering him out and across the hall into a huge back room just as expansive and sleek as the storefront.

It looks like a mix between the inside of a salon and the backstage of a fashion show. 

Baekhyun moves Jihoon toward a mirror and tells him to lift his arms. When he does, a tailor descends on him at once with measuring tape, scribbling numbers onto a little black notebook as he maps him out.

“I’ve never worn a suit before.” Jihoon offers awkwardly, trying to initiate conversation.

Baekhyun only nods, like idle chit chat is beneath him.

"And now for the inseam," The tailor says, and drops to his knees between Jihoon's legs, reaching for his crotch.

"Woah, what?"

Before Jihoon can back off the little platform in fear, the tailor runs a tape down his inseam, muttering to himself.

Next, the tailor drapes fabric next to Jihoon's face, asking his opinion several times but not waiting for an answer.

Not that Jihoon _has_ an opinion on fabrics. He doesn’t know anything about tiny buttons and starched collars, thin pinstripes and triple-prong cufflinks, shoes with laces and cashmere pocket squares. He is nothing but baffled by it. He doesn’t understand how any one outfit could require twenty separate bits and pieces to make it complete.

In the end, a decision is made for him since he’s clearly out of his depth.

Jihoon is sure it can only go uphill from there, but when he arrives in the next room, he's greeted by two women who ask him to take his clothes off and lie down with his legs in the air.

"For a facial?"

"And an anal bleach," one of the women says.

Jihoon closes his eyes for a brief moment, looking for strength. 

He is going to  _kill_  Seungcheol.

“I am not having my asshole bleached!” He snaps.

He doesn’t care _how_ much money Seungcheol is offering him; some things he just won’t do. And why would he need an anal bleaching anyway? It’s not like Seungcheol’s going to be conducting business with his anu—

Jihoon refuses to finish that thought.

“That’s alright sir, we can skip that step if you like.” One of the women says, a sly smile on her face.

After his facial, Jihoon is passed off to the hairdresser.

“I like my hair the way it is," Jihoon says through teeth still gritted in anger.

"I’ll just tidy it up a little. Nothing drastic, I promise." The man assures.

Jihoon closes his eyes and lets the man go at it, letting himself be soothed by the gentle tugging on his scalp. When he opens them again, he's surprised that he actually likes what the guy did. A lot. He still has his fringe, but it’s neater and slicked back off his forehead.

The hairdresser gives him a pot of product, and explains with much primping and hand waving how Jihoon can get the _look_.

Jihoon isn't convinced, but he'll try. It’s certainly less invasive than anal bleaching.

Finally, it's back to the tailor for the suit fitting where Jihoon is ordered into a pair of boxer-briefs and a smooth white undershirt that feels like silk.

He almost laughs when he puts it on—the last time be bought undershirts, they were the stiff, scratchy, three-to-a-pack kind you get at the mega mart.

That’s not to say Jihoon doesn’t have any nice things.

He’s made a couple of investments where it mattered to him—a custom motorbike, a generous collection of his favourite books, a good bottle of whiskey every year on his birthday. His mother was the one who taught him the value of things, of what it meant to take care of what you have.

Jihoon is suddenly overcome with remembering her. He doesn’t like to think of the past often.

“Mr Lee?” Baekhyun says.

Jihoon jolts; he’s not sure how long he’s been standing there.

“Sorry,” he says. “Did you say something?”

“That we’re ready to get started.” Baekhyun gestures to the rows of clothes the staff are rolling in all around them. There are entire racks of pants, jackets, shirts, overcoats, ties, sweaters, shoes—

“Holy shit,” Jihoon says. “All of that?”

Baekhyun lifts his eyebrows and folds his arms. “Mr Choi pays for the best for his people.”

Jihoon frowns at that. He doesn’t particularly like being referred to as one of Seungcheol’s _people_.

Baekhyun laughs at the expression on his face, then with the snap of his fingers, the clothes descend. 

“This can’t be how they’re supposed to fit,” Jihoon says, standing opposite the mirror, watching the way the pants grip his ass so tight he might as well be naked.

The rest of the suit looks good, he has to admit. Not as good as a suit ought to look on a person, not as good as, say, Seungcheol had looked, but not at all bad.

“Non. Parfait,” The Tailor says, ignoring Jihoon and suddenly speaking French for some reason. “One suit is ready á présent. Les autres we will deliver when they have been adjusted. D’accord?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Jihoon murmurs distractedly, trying not to give himself an honest to God wedgie as he steps off the platform. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in another mirror and….he's a bit weirded out by how much he likes looking at himself like this, actually.

Seungcheol was right—it’s about highlighting what you have, not what you don’t.

It seems like a lifetime later—even though his pilfered Rolex assures him it's only been three hours— that Jihoon is finally coiffed, primped, manicured, dressed in a charcoal pinstripe suit, and ready to walk out the door.

Much to his relief, the card Seungcheol gave him does indeed work, and the eye watering $200,000 charge goes through without a hitch.

* * *

 

Seungcheol makes sure to time it perfectly when he returns to pick Biker Boy up from his day of adventure at the spa and salon.

There are two good reasons not to keep the guy waiting. The first involves the fact that Seungcheol still can't  _quite_  believe he convinced Biker Boy to do this. Why push his luck by making the guy stand around somewhere uncomfortable, probably dressed in a nice suit and feeling irredeemably girly, waiting to be rescued?

The second reason involves Seungcheol's important business meeting with a one Kim Namjoon, that he can’t delay further. 

It's 17:55pm when the limousine pulls up to the brick façade, five minutes before Biker Boy is due to walk out and meet him. He could instruct the driver to pull further forward and stop two feet from the door, but he instructs him to park the car about thirty feet back instead.

It's not far enough to piss Biker Boy off, but it is enough to make Biker Boy come to him.

Seungcheol wants a good view so he can take it  _all_  in.

He pours himself a tumbler of scotch and leans back in his seat, comfortable creak of leather as he watches through the window.

He's ready to school his features into his business neutral expression—all the better for keeping Biker Boy calm and with the program—and to keep his inevitable urge to laugh on a secret low simmer.

He's not ready for what he actually  _sees_  when the glass of the entry glints and the door opens, because the sight doesn't inspire anything like laughter.

Seungcheol spent an entire afternoon studying Biker Boy’s features—the contours of his face and the line of his back and even imagined what the guy would like in a shoplifted suit and tie (and what he'd look like underneath him in bed, face screwed up in pleasure). But he's still not sure he recognizes the Biker Boy he sees walking in his direction.

No. Not Biker Boy anymore— _Mr Lee._

The suit fits Mr Lee's shoulders and waist like poetry and perfection, and the pants cling just right in a way that's more than a little bit distracting. His hair is a startling change, still nearly as long as it was earlier—but slicked back, sculpted like goddamn  _art_.

Seungcheol can't stop staring, the scotch glass almost slips out of his fingers. And from five feet away as Mr Lee finally closes the distance, he looks… is he glowing?

Seungcheol knows his mouth is hanging open and he can’t do a thing about it. Not even as Mr Lee reaches for the handle and opens the car door so he can slide in.

He keeps on staring, wide eyed and breathless (possibly sporting an erection), as Mr Lee slams the door shut and settles back against the leather seat.

Seungcheol doesn't know what to say. “You—”

“Why on earth would I need my asshole bleached?” Mr Lee interrupts with a snarl, and it's enough to snap Seungcheol out of that weird, tense spot.

Seungcheol coughs, clears his throat. “Mr Lee—I’d like to introduce you to my associate, Kim Namjoon.” He says, gesturing to Namjoon sitting near the front of the limo, a curiously raised eyebrow levelled at them both.

Mr Lee snaps his head to the side, started by the unexpected presence.

He clenches his fists, face settling into a familiar scowl.

Seungcheol expects a slap in the face, angry yelling, or for Mr Lee to bolt from the now moving limo in rage.

Instead, he surprises Seungcheol by taking a deep, mediating breath, plastering a polite smile on his face and leaning across the gap between the seats to offer his hand.

“Nice to meet you Mr Kim. Apologies, it’s—my first day on the job.”

Namjoon grins, accepting the headshake readily. “Quite alright. A pleasure to meet you Mr Lee. Seungcheol has told me a lot about you.”

“Has he?” Mr Lee drawls. He meets Seungcheol's eyes, and a frisson of electricity sings briefly in the air between them.

“Oh, yes.” Namjoon says, leaning back and lacing his fingers over his stomach. “Very favourable things.”

Seungcheol can see a hint of wariness in Mr Lee’s eyes, but his previous anger has almost completely vanished.

No slap in the face today—although Seungcheol wouldn’t have minded one, from hands as pretty as those.

“So, shall we get down to business?” Seungcheol says. If his delivery is a little off, maybe the engine turning over can cover it for him.

"Yes," Mr Lee says, leaning back in his seat and crossing his legs, and _Jesus_ those pants are tight. "Lets.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1)I feel like there was a lot of pickpocketing going on in this chapter. I don't condone pickpocketing btw, I just happen to include it a lot.  
> 2) I really can't wait for Jicheol smut. Eugh, why do I slow burn when I am already in so much pain!  
> 3) Sorry this took longer to update, but I only have myself and my numerous WIP to blame.  
> 4) Hope you enjoy the update! Thank you for reading and feedback always appreciated.


	7. Endors toi

Seokmin knows there’s a narrow window of time between finding any useful information on the phone he’s pinched, and the owner reporting it as stolen and having access blocked.

There’s also the small matter of the ‘Anti-theft GPS’ on the device, that’s more dangerous to him right now than a slap on the wrists. The last thing he needs is Choi Seungcheol’s men tracking him down using its signal, so he scrolls through the phone quickly while on the move, memorising as much information as he can, and transferring what he _can’t_ onto the edges of an old newspaper in messy scribbles.

Now he’s armed himself with some names, numbers, addresses and…..some pretty pornographic selcas.

Whoever this _Kwon Soonyoung_ guy is—he leads a very _colourful_ life when he’s not working for the mafia.

Seokmin finds a whole _array_ of full frontal nudes, dick pics and poorly angled shots of Soonyoung’s peachy asshole in a subdirectory. The man seems to have every dating app on the market installed on his phone, multiple accounts set up on each of them, but apparently—not much luck when it comes to reciprocated interest.

Seokmin can’t fathom why.

Soonyoung’s a very handsome, desirable man—but perhaps sending potential matches close ups of your asshole are a bit intense for the casual dating scene?

 _Probably_.

Personally, Seokmin quite likes the photographs, now that he’s cycled through them _four_ times. Especially the full body shots of Soonyoung attempting to pose seductively on various surfaces, á la Kate Winslet in the Titanic boobie scene.

 _Sans_ boobies of course. 

One picture in particular catches Seokmin’s attention: Soonyoung looking lazy and relaxed — wearing a choker and smudged eyeliner and nothing else. He’s sprawled out on a bed with one arm tucked under his head, skin pale and unmarked, his hair longer, hanging over his forehead.

There should be nothing special about it. It’s not well-shot. It’s shadowed and blurry, but Soonyoung is giving the camera a goofy up-through-the lashes seductive look that, Seokmin notes, is still pretty effective despite being unintentional.

There are 400+ photographs on the phone, but Soonyoung is most gorgeous in this one, when he’s not trying so hard.

Seokmin slips his own phone out of his pocket and takes a picture of the photo. He’s not sure what he’s going to do with it, if anything, but he feels compelled to have it.

As expected, the phone locks a few minutes later, and a _‘This phone is locked—Call owner now’_ message pops up on the screen.

Having outdone its usefulness, Seokmin tosses it out the window. If anyone _is_ tracking it now—well they can enjoy fishing it out of the river themselves.

He’s got what he needs: a photograph he might jerk off to later, and an address for one Kwon Soonyoung.

* * *

 

“You haven’t answered my question yet.” Jeonghan says, dropping his fork onto the half empty plate.

“And I’m not _going_ to.” Jisoo informs him, very stern.

He’s been pointedly ignoring Jeonghan all day—nose deep in some book about Russian Poetry; _Pushkin_ or what the fuck ever, that makes no sense at all to Jeonghan.  

Jeonghan sighs and shifts the tray onto the nightstand.

The worst thing about captivity is the tedium. Nothing to do but lie in bed and wait for Jisoo to reappear with food and medicines and _keys_ to uncuff him for extremely awkward, supervised trips to the adjacent bathroom.

He never thought he’d have to fight for visitation rights to empty his own _bladder_ , but there’s not much he can do but go along with it; he’s still too weak to put up a fight in any case. 

“Then I suppose I’ll just have to _make up_ a reason for why you own a pair of handcuffs, and why I’m still cuffed to this bed.” Jeonghan offers, shaking his cuffed wrist.

Jisoo sighs in a way that indicates that Jeonghan is always the worst part of his day. 

“Go ahead. Knock yourself out.”

Everything about him still communicates disinterest, but Jeonghan has a good feeling about this line of conversation.

He studies Jisoo, frowning like a painter judging perspective. 

“I think you were raised by monks—” He ventures, looking at Jisoo cannily for a reaction.

Jisoo just licks the tip of his finger and turns the page. 

“Or maybe just a Catholic Boarding school.” Jeonghan continues. “ _Yes_ —that’s more like it. I can easily picture you in the fussy uniform, all prim and proper. You were probably a Prefect—or Head Boy even—a studious little teachers pet.”

Jisoo makes a sound between amusement and disdain.

“I think you’ve lived an awfully sheltered life, never doing anything that might affect your reputation or that of your parents. I don’t blame you of course—it must have been difficult, growing up in a Catholic Boarding School as a closeted _homosexual_.” Jeonghan puts a little emphasis on it, and grins inwardly when he sees Jisoo’s jaw tighten.

But he’s still reading that book, and that just won’t do.

“Are you engaged? No—don’t answer that, of course you aren’t. Can’t bring yourself to drag some innocent woman into your lie. But your parents must have tried setting you up with someone. You _must_ have gone on so many dates with women, convincing yourself you’d enjoy it _one_ day. But then you met me, and it dawned on you— _fuck, I’m gay_.”

“Oh, do shut up.” Jisoo drawls.

To the untrained hear, he sounds droll, but Jeonghan knows a tell when he hears one.

“So you went out and bought a pair of handcuffs, restrained me to this bed and now you’re waiting for just the right time to have your wicked way with me.” Jeonghan summarises at last, pleased and not afraid to show it.

“You have a frightfully enlarged ego.” Jisoo says quietly.

Jeonghan lifts a knee under the bedsheet and waggles his eyebrow. “That’s not the only thing _enlarged_ about me.”

Jisoo ignores him in that deliberate way, which makes him a terrible person to flirt with.

“Of course,” Jeonghan says, shifting to lean against the headboard. “You know all about how enlarged I am, since you’ve been sneaking glances at my dick while I’ve been sleeping.”

Jisoo snaps his book shut. “I have not!”

He’s suddenly, visibly exasperated, wound so tight that Jeonghan can almost imagining him uncoiling like a spring and shooting him into the air. 

“Ahh!” Jeonghan points at him, triumphant. "You reacted to the accusation! Why would you be so defensive if it _didn't_ happen?"

Jisoo huffs a sigh and opens his book again, settling back in his seat. Retrenching, probably.

“Aw. Did I hit another nerve?” Jeonghan affects a pout. “I can be a bit of an ass when I’m bored you see. And since you refuse to answer my questions, I have to make up my _own_ entertainment.”

Jisoo sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “Please finish your dinner Jeonghan. I have things to do besides entertain the likes of you.”

Jeonghan opens his mouth to reply, then promptly snaps it shut.

_Wait a second…._

“How did you know my name?” He asks quietly, and Jisoo freezes.

Their eyes meet over the top of the book.

“You told me it—”

“No, I _didn’t_.” Jeonghan interjects sharply.  “I was very careful _not_ to tell you.”

Jisoo’s eyes dart back and forth over the open book in his hand, too quickly to be reading anything.

“I have to go.” He exclaims suddenly, standing up with enough force to send his chair toppling over. Whisking the tray off the nightstand, he disappears out the door in a rush, locking it behind him.

As soon as he’s out of sight, Jeonghan collapses on his bed, allowing himself an explosive sigh.

Okay. So—that was _something_.

 _Something_ he’s overlooking.

 

* * *

 

“Get out of my way, Mingyu.”

“No. You're the colour of wet cement, and you’re barely standing on your own two feet.” Mingyu says, keeping his voice calm.

He’s standing firmly in front of his flat door, arms crossed over his chest, staring down a determined Wonwoo.

“I’m not staying!”

“You won’t make it a block without falling over, so can you just calm down. _Please_.”

“Calm down? Calm down?” Wonwoo repeats hysterically. “How the fuck am I supposed to calm down now?”

He’s leaning heavily against the wall, a thin sheen of sweat on his face. The bandages around his arms are still clean, but his eyes are red-rimmed with fatigue. He looks like he's a half-second away from collapsing in a sweaty grey heap on Mingyu’s hardwood floor, and all Mingyu wants to do is put him back on the couch with a blanket and bring him a cup of tea.

Is that too much to fucking ask?

Wonwoo is the worst patient Mingyu has ever met, and he's including himself on that list, along with his great-uncle Min-Ho who had the amazing ability to regurgitate any medication given by mouth and liked to swan about the house wearing nothing but a smile.

“This is why I wanted to wait till you were feeling better. I _knew_ you’d freak out like this.” Mingyu sighs, scrubbing at his face with one hand and feeling the stubble scrape at his palm.

He needs a shave, a shower and an IV drip of coffee in that order.

“What the fuck were you expecting? Of course I’m going to freak out. You work for Choi Seungcheol. He’s a—You’re a—,” Wonwoo hesitates, and his expression slides to stubborn incredulity. “I need to get out of here!”

Mingyu grabs the key off the key hook, and in a fiendishly clever move, makes it disappear from sight.

If Wonwoo wants to make himself target practice that badly, he's going to have to put his hands down Mingyu’s trousers. Mingyu is willing to bet their relationship has not yet reached that point, and very likely never will after today.

“Wonwoo _please_. If I was going to hurt you—wouldn’t I have had ample opportunity to do that last night? I mean, you _were_ pretty vulnerable—I could have just snapped your neck then and be done with this.” Mingyu says, trying for reassuring and likely missing by a _mile_.

“My crew are out there!” Wonwoo growls.

“No. Your crew are doing a pretty good job of keeping low actually. Which is what you need to do too Wonwoo.” Mingyu can feel his own voice rising, feel the frantic plea thick in his throat. “There are men out there, with a grainy CCTV image of your face and twitchy trigger fingers and the best thing you can do for _yourself_ is stay where they least expect to find you.”

Wonwoo looks surprised. 

“Why would he let Jihoon go, but hunt the rest of us?” He says. There’s frustration in his voice, an edge of panic that just sets him more determined.

“I don’t know.” Mingyu groans. He shoves the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “Seungcheol’s got his head so far up his ass these days, I doubt even _he_ knows what his motivation is. I try not to question his logic too much—I just do what I’m told.”

Wonwoo squints at him. “And I’m sure he told you to find me and bring me in. Or maybe just shoot me on site. Which is it?”

It's a moment for truth, or something like it, and Mingyu draws in a steadying breath to say, “Yeah, he wants me to find you and your whole crew. I’m his head of security—it’s my job to take care of this—but we _both_ know I’m not going to rat you out.”

Wonwoo doesn’t look convinced.

He’s meeting Mingyu head-on, eyes reluctant but steady. Something not quite rage still burns behind them.

“Look—,” Mingyu says, voice dropping soft as he steps closer than he probably should. Wonwoo, tracking each step with a weary gaze. “Just give it a few days. He’ll find something else to focus on and forget about you guys. Just a few days.”

But Wonwoo still shakes his head, stubborn and predictable. His hands, Mingyu notices, are tightly formed fists. “Why the fuck should I trust anything you say? Why should I trust you?”

Mingyu sighs at him, tight-jawed. “If you don’t trust me, then why’d you come here last night?”

Wonwoo’s laugh is brief and broken. It makes Mingyu feel profoundly uncomfortable.

“That was before I knew who you worked for. Had I known, I would have suffocated you with your fucking pillow while you slept.”

His gaze is steady, unapologetic. Mingyu meets it. 

“That’s cold dude. I haven’t laid a single finger on you that you didn’t want me to.”

“Go fuck yourself.” Wonwoo says venomously, turning and walking more-or-less straight into the bathroom and slamming the door behind him so hard it rattles the pictures on the walls.

Mingyu shakes his head and does what he always does when he has unexpected house guests. He makes a pot of tea.

He thinks herbal teas are generally awful, but he'll endure a pot of peppermint leaves in the evening because it seems to help him sleep, and although he isn't sure if Wonwoo’s in the tea drinking mood, or if he even drinks tea, he hopes it might go a little way in helping Wonwoo calm the fuck down.

He can hear muffled grunting coming from the bathroom, and Mingyu guesses Wonwoo's trying to pry the window open. If he was in Wonwoo's shoes, maybe he'd be doing the same thing—probably, Mingyu thinks—but Wonwoo's barely mobile, weak as a kitten, and Mingyu can't think of anything good that can come of letting Wonwoo drag himself out into Seoul’s streets in that state.

Mingyu carries the tea to the living room on a wooden tray, pushes the throw aside and digs the remote for the television out from behind a cushion. Clicking through channels in search of anything that will distract him from wanting to kick the door down and drag Wonwoo out.

When Wonwoo finally emerges from the bathroom, Mingyu is absorbed in some ludicrous Korean soap and halfway through his cup of peppermint tea.

Wonwoo shifts the pillows and settles a comfortable distance from Mingyu, leaving Mingyu to weigh his chances of being forgiven against the chances of being knocked unconscious and relieved of the keys. It's about sixty-forty in favour of an assault on his person, Mingyu figures, so he calmly pours a second cup of tea and sets it in front of Wonwoo.

His logic being: if he remains sensible and calm about this, Wonwoo will too.

Wonwoo picks up his teacup and sips at the pale green liquid. His posture has loosened a little. He looks pensive, rather than weary.

“I owe you an apology,” He starts.

He's talking into his teacup, so softly that Mingyu isn't sure he's heard him right until he glances over and sees the tips of Wonwoo's ears are flushed red.

“Couldn’t open the bathroom window, could ya?”

Wonwoo laughs slightly, really just an exhalation. “It appears to be bolted shut.”

“First thing I did when I moved in.” Mingyu says. At Wonwoo’s quizzical expression he shrugs, “Security reasons. The woman across the hall had her throat slit when she was in the—” He says and doesn't finish, for the sake of not giving Wonwoo any ideas.

There is a pause anyway, where he just hears Wonwoo's faint breathing, the television playing quietly behind him.

“I didn’t mean that. The suffocating you in your sleep thing.” Wonwoo murmurs.

Mingyu guesses he should still be feeling annoyed by that comment, but all he knows is the overwhelming flood of relief that pours through him knowing Wonwoo's not about to shamble out of his flat and collapse somewhere Mingyu won't be able to help put him right. It makes him feel magnanimous.

“Forget about it,” He says, and he's surprised to realize he mostly means it. He knows Wonwoo's just frustrated. Men like them aren't used to being cooped up inside—it feels too much like prison, and Mingyu would do a lot to avoid ending up in a cell of any kind, so it shouldn't really be a surprise that Wonwoo feels the same way.

“No, I was acting like a dick, and I'm sorry.” Wonwoo says, trampled resignation in his voice. “It’s just a lot to take in, yanno— _Choi fucking Seungcheol._ When we were planning this heist, we just thought we were stealing from some faceless banking corporation, not a fucking _mob boss.”_

“Look, Wonwoo,” Mingyu says, and he turns sideways on the sofa so he can face Wonwoo, even though Wonwoo seems to be far more interested in his tea than in him.

“I know it’s a lot to take in, I know, and I'm not trying to be an ass by keeping you here, I swear. But I know how this shit usually goes down, and I honestly don’t think you’ve got a fighting chance right now with who’s out there looking for you and how you’re looking like an extra from  _Night of the Living Dead_ and all.”

“Do I look that bad?” Wonwoo risks a glance at Mingyu, and Mingyu nods.

“Let's put it this way: I'm not keeping you around because you look good on my bed.”

That gets a laugh from Wonwoo, and Mingyu feels the warm glow of victory.

It should be at least a few days before Wonwoo gets stir-crazy enough to want to leave again, and by then he might even be well enough to put up a fight without Mingyu worrying he's going to pass out along the way. Mingyu isn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

They sip their tea in silence and Mingyu doesn't miss the signs that Wonwoo's painkillers are wearing off. Wordlessly, he gets up and brings him a pair of capsules, which Wonwoo swallows down eagerly with a mouthful of peppermint tea.

“Where’d you get your intel for the heist anyway?” Mingyu says, something like an afterthought.

He’s aware that asking about any aspects of the heist is treading on dangerous ground, but Wonwoo doesn’t bristle like he expects him to. He just looks at him, his face crumpled with unease.

“I don’t know. I don’t deal with that side of things. Jeonghan’s the guy with the contacts, he led the whole thing.”

“Jeonghan huh? You _really_ need to stop sharing names of your accomplices.” Mingyu says, trying to rein in the fondness in his voice with medium success.

He’s rewarded with a tinny, tired laugh. “Shit. I’m usually better at keeping my mouth shut, honestly.”

* * *

 

The sun beating down on them has marginally helped in drying their clothes. But Jun’s been wading up river for so long, he would wager that if you tilt him far enough in any direction, water would pour out of his ears like a fucking jug.  

Minghao looks no better limping along beside him, reloading his Glock. Water seeps out when he pushes the clip in, and Jun knows that's not a particularly good sign.

The rain seems to have stolen pounds off Minghao’s slim frame. Leaving him as nothing but narrow limbs, and an ugly damp suit. He seems to be compensating by scowling harder than usual, which is always a lovely accompaniment to a gruelling two hour walk.

They’ve managed to avoid gaining the wrong kind of attention by sticking to small side streets and dark alleys. But walking is only going to get them so far.

They _need_ a vehicle.

At the end of one alley, Jun stops walking, stands still where he is. Minghao walks another two steps before noticing, then stops and turns sharply, brow creasing. "What’s up?"

“We’re going to need transportation.” Jun says, poking his head out of the alley. He has a quick look up and down the street and spots a suitable choice. An older model KIA, no alarms, easier to break into. 

“What about your car?” Minghao says, plucking at his soiled cuffs, looking irritated.

Jun twists and looks over his shoulder, up at the twisty side streets behind them. “Too risky to go back for it right now. It’s safe where it is. I can double back for it later.”

Jun points the car out to Minghao—then calmly crosses the road towards it. There is nothing, he thinks peaceably, like ending the day by hot-wiring your own car.

He's gotten it unlocked and pulled down the panel by the steering wheel when Minghao nudges him with his boot.

“What?” Jun huffs, wedging a screwdriver he fished from the glove compartment carefully, to hold the panel in place. "Can’t you see I’m trying to commandeer us a vehicle?”

Minghao’s watching him very closely now, his chin raised. “You said later. Later when? What’s _happening_ later?”

“Later when Choi Seungcheol’s men _aren’t_ chasing our asses.” Jun mumbles, while stripping a wire with his teeth.

“Again—I’m not sure how it became _our_ asses. You _technically_ , have nothing to be running from.” Minghao remarks, unhelpfully.

Jun pouts, which must look doubly ridiculous when he’s upside down in the footwell. “Are you saying you don’t appreciate my company?”

Minghao blinks at him, slowly, like he's not sure what to do with himself. Then he shakes his head and says, “No. I just—don’t know why you’d _want_ to get involved. I’m kind of up shit creek without a paddle here.”

Jun shrugs, helpless to explain the exact situation.

“Maybe I just really like _your_ company.” He offers, because it’s safer not to say too much for now.

Touching the two wires together, he is rewarded with the faint purr of the engine. “Yes!”

“Holy shit! You did it!” Minghao gasps, his surprise at which is somewhat offensive.  

“Quick—get in.” Jun says, righting himself and pushing back his seat.

After Minghao climbs in, Jun pauses for a minute to adjust the rear-view mirror, and takes off.

* * *

 

It’s rather clever of Seungcheol to conduct his less than legal meeting with a highly shady businessman on the move. A moving target is much harder to track than a stationary one after all, and in Jihoon’s experience, not so easy to plant bugging devices on either.

Despite that, Seungcheol still doesn’t take any risks when it comes to business. If anyone _is_ listening in to the conversation he’s having with Namjoon, they’re probably at a loss to what is being discussed.

“So, then it’s settled. I’ll bring the parakeets and you build the nest and hopefully the crows won’t interrupt us this time.”

“I doubt they will. But if they try—that’s what the scarecrow is for.”

Jihoon nods along to the conversation sagely, as if he has a fucking idea what they’re talking about.

Well, he’s not _completely_ in the dark.

Seungcheol’s secret language _is_ a little confusing—but it’s not exactly rocket science. Jihoon’s used to living a life were words meaning something completely different, so he’s at least able to decipher that _something_ big is happening on the last Friday of the month. 

If his suspicions are correct, Namjoon has been tasked with bringing Seungcheol new business— _the parakeets;_ Seungcheol is arranging the location for the meet-up— _the nest_ , and ensuring their deal isn’t likely to be interrupted by any cops snooping about— _the crows_. He’s not entirely sure who plays the ‘ _Scarecrow’_ in this scenario, but he’s assuming whoever it is, will serve as a distraction. 

Of course, he could be _completely_ wrong. This conversation may very well be about two dodgy billionaires planning a bird watching session.

Anything’s possible with Seungcheol.

“So—that went well.” Jihoon says when they drop Namjoon off and are on the move again, not so much stating the fact as testing the idea out, hoping for confirmation.

Seungcheol spares him a glance, “Yes, I suppose it did.”

“I just hope whoever this _scarecrow_ is, is enough to keep the _crows_ occupied so you and Namjoon can feed your _parakeets_.” Jihoon adds, hoping he hasn’t just made a complete fool of himself.

Seungcheol dips his head, a gentleman's nod. “You handled yourself very well. And you’re pretty quick on the uptake too. I’m impressed. Usually it takes newbies a few months before they get a hang of the glad-handing and jargon.”

Jihoon acknowledges that with a shrug.

He’d forced himself to smile and chuckle and to laugh appreciatively at the appropriate pauses. He's good at turning on the charm. It's a trick he’s picked up from Jeonghan, or so everybody says, and when he smooths it over his voice, no one can tell that he's really a mess of nerves inside, uncomfortably deranged.

“Well, I can’t say it wasn’t confusing. I got the gist of it, even if I’m still not sure what the _scarecrow_ is supposed to be.”

“I’ll tell you more about it later.” Seungcheol dismisses with an airy gesture, shifting to pour himself another drink.

Seungcheol sure does drink a lot—Jihoon thinks to himself.

He’d had two glasses of wine during lunch, a drink in the limo on the way to the Boutique, a drink after, then during the meeting he’d had a Glenfiddich single malt cradled in his hands while Jihoon carefully stuck with plain old bottled water.

Well—he _says_ it’s plain old, but it’s probably mineral water harvested from Switzerland, no doubt strained between the thighs of nuns!

“Can I get you a drink?” Seungcheol’s voice cuts through his thoughts.

“No, I’m good.” Jihoon shakes his head, trying not to glance at how Seungcheol’s pants pull taut over his thighs as he moves. 

His _own_ pants are currently too tight to be having such thoughts.

Seungcheol gets a text message then. Jihoon knows this because he's sitting close enough to Seungcheol that their thighs brush, and he can feel the vibration of his mobile — a pleasant buzz in his semi-relaxed state.

Seungcheol reads his text and then he sort of laughs before grimacing. “Oh, God.”

Curiosity piqued, Jihoon glances at the screen as discreetly as he can—gasping at the sight that assaults his eyes.

The text turns out to be a picture message—of a naked man, bound with rope and sprawled out on a bed— _invitingly_.

Jihoon is painfully and irrationally jealous.

Which is absolutely _psychotic_.

Why should he care?

Of course, Seungcheol has men sending him sexy pictures at odd times of the day. He’s a mob boss, a _billionaire_ — _of course_ people are going to be throwing themselves at him and vying for his attention. He’s probably got a whole catalogue of gorgeous supermodels in his contact list, just waiting for an invitation to his outrageous billionaire parties where he’ll do tequila shots off their svelte stomachs—or whatever it is that handsome, young, red-blooded Korean men do.

Jihoon can't profess to know — he was always sort of an odd duck, Jeonghan had said. His idea of a good night is a hot water bottle, freshly washed bedsheets, and absolute silence so that he doesn't have to talk to anyone.

“It’s not—it’s not what it looks like.” Seungcheol stammers, having noticed Jihoon looking. “It’s like a weird private joke or something—I’m not, not with—"

“Oh, hey—whatever.” Jihoon interjects quickly. “What _you_ do in your own time is _your_ own business dude. I mean Boss—Sir— _Mr Choi_.” He blabbers.  

Shifting a few inches away from Seungcheol, he uncaps his bottle of water and takes a healthy gulp, throat suddenly _parched_.

Seungcheol sighs and types out a reply before tucking his phone away.

There’s a lengthy, strained silence in the limo, before Seungcheol drapes his hand behind the head rest and leans over, lowering his tone confidentially. “I’ve been meaning to ask you—how’s the suit feel?”

Jihoon glances down at his sleek tie pin and even sleeker cufflinks. “Expensive?”

“It looks expensive.” Seungcheol says. His tone is light, but he leaves a pause after saying it.

For some reason, Jihoon feels embarrassed. It makes him formal. “You did _insist_ on it Mr Choi.”

“You look good.” Seungcheol replies without a beat, as if he's been holding those three words in his mouth all along. “I told you you’d have the perfect figure for it.” He adds, patting Jihoon on the leg.

He lets his hand linger there for a second—his broad palm spanning the width of Jihoon’s thigh, reminding Jihoon of the heft of his body, of _whom_ he's with.

Jihoon swallows thickly. His throat feels tight and hard, as if there is a fist clenched around it.

Seungcheol is changeable—there were moments during his conversation with Namjoon when Jihoon glanced over at him and thought he looked ten years younger than he was. Usually when he was focused about something, or impatient. Other times, when he was complacent, he looked older, heavier, appealingly dangerous.

It’s unsettling that’s what Jihoon finds attractive now.  

At the moment, he’s watching Jihoon with a kind of highly focused fondness. As if he is cataloguing this moment for addition to some inner dossier. The moment of Jihoon feeling out of his depth, and embarrassed about it.

Feeling stripped, Jihoon looks back out through the car window and clears his throat. “So, where next?”

Seungcheol looks out his own window and crosses his legs. After a minute or so he says, “The steak house.”

“The steak house?” Jihoon wrinkles his nose; he’s not sure if that’s a code word or not.

Seungcheol seems to sense his confusion. “It’s not code for anything—business makes me hungry, and I _believe_ I owe you a steak.”

Jihoon doesn’t mean to smile radiantly, but he can’t help it. “I want a _huge_ T-bone steak. With all the fixins…..And a cola!”

Seungcheol grins and taps on the glass partition between them and the driver, relaying a brief instruction when the window rolls down.

He lifts his drink, the bubbles in his glass catch the light. “The best steak you’ve ever had coming right up, _mon petit chou_.”

Jihoon pouts.

_Mon petit chou?_

Great _. More French_. He’s going to have to look what _that_ means later.

* * *

 

Seokmin walks along the pavement, following the navigation app on his phone.  

When he looks up, he can see tower houses stacked like candy boxes, pastel-coloured and crowded, and also entirely charming. It's a quiet part of town and a lot less upscale than Seokmin had expected.

Unusual living arrangements for one of Choi Seungcheol’s top goons.  

He finds the tower house which is Kwon Soonyoung’s last known address, and he sits in a cafe across the street, ordering a cappuccino e brioche, the latter of which he eats wrapped up in the napkin it comes in.

He watches Soonyoung's place, and around seven o'clock he sees Soonyoung emerge.

Seokmin remains seated, watching as the man crosses the road, then walks purposefully down the sidewalk towards him. He lifts the magazine he’s pretending to read a little higher, shielding his face as his target passes the café and strides towards the conveniences store at the end of the block.

Just a grocery run it seems. He’ll be back.

Sure enough, just as Seokmin has finished his coffee, he sees Soonyoung return.

Seokmin looks at him closely then, inasmuch as he can from this distance. The guy looks younger out of his suit, in a grey hoodie and scuffed jeans, but that's to be expected. He moves with a taut energy, and as he re-enters his tower house, plastic bag dangling from his fingers.

Fifteen minutes later, Seokmin stands up and pays his bill. Then he crosses the street and enters Soonyoung's building.

He keeps his mind blank as he climbs the stairs up to the fifth floor.

There's no elevator in a tower house as old as this one, and his steps make echoing sounds on the metal. It's better that way. He listens to the rhythm of his ascent, and enters a familiar state of calm when he finally reaches Soonyoung's door (#4, if his memory serves him right) and pulls out his lock picks.

These old flats, they're laughably easy to break into.

Soonyoung's door is a bit harder than expected, probably because the guy in his wisdom has reinforced it, but Seokmin works quietly and deftly, and feels the lock give way underneath his pick in about two minutes.

He listens for sounds on the other side, for any indication that Soonyoung is alert and waiting for his intruder. There's nothing, but that means very little because the guy isn’t some pedestrian, and Seokmin knows the beauty of a proper ambush. He unholsters his gun and pushes the door open.

It's a homey flat, though somewhat sparse, with the tell-tale signs of an owner who doesn't actually spend much time here. Junk mail and flyers are gathering neatly on the kitchen partition, but there's nothing on the coffee table except for an empty plastic bag and a receipt for—a length of rope, Durex tingling pleasure gel, and a single cucumber.

What a _strange_ shopping list—Seokmin thinks upon closer inspection.

There are two bedrooms down the hall—one empty, the other with the door closed over.

There’s music coming from the other side of the locked. It's a pitch too loud for a man with so many potential enemies, but Seokmin appreciates the carelessness.

Raising his gun, Seokmin kicks the door open and……… freezes.

“What the hell?”

Soonyoung is lying on the bed—in an extreme state of undress. A complete state of undress actually. Not only that—he appears to be restrained _already_ , with ropes tied around his arms and ankles.

“What the fuck dude!” Soonyoung sits halfway up, his face a perfect rictus of surprise. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you to knock first?”

Seokmin steps into the room, fighting down a ridiculous sort of smile.

“That would defeat the purpose of taking you by surprise now, wouldn’t it?” He says, aiming his gun squarely on the figure on the bed.

When Soonyoung sights the gun, there’s a sharp little intake of breath and out an honest-to-goodness _whimper._

“No— _please_!” Soonyoung says, and the thickness of his voice makes Seokmin pause and look at him intently.

“Don’t worry. The gun is just for show—I have _other_ plans for you.” Seokmin chuckles. Then it occurs to him to ask. “Wait a second—who the fuck tied you up?”

He moves around the room, checking all the viable hiding spots to ascertain how this is possible. But the place appears to be empty except for them.

Soonyoung huffs out a sigh. “I did.”

There are so many ways to interpret that. Except—no, there isn’t.

Seokmin raises a dubious brow. “You—tied yourself up? _Why_? Because you knew I was coming and have accepted your fate?”

Soonyoung turn bright red in the face. Redder. He looks vaguely guilty. “No. I tie myself up sometimes—uhm, to practice.”

“Practice _what_?”

“Escaping.” Soonyoung responds simply, as if on automatic.

“Escaping?” Seokmin echoes, then stops to glance at the foot of the bed where a tube of Durex tingling pleasure gel and a terrifyingly large cucumber sit.

He picks up the cucumber and studies it. It’s— _hefty_.

_Escaping my ass._

Seokmin clears his throat and sets the cucumber down. “I _see_. Well then—go on, let’s see you try and _escape_.”

Soonyoung blinks up at him. “What? _Now_?”

“Well, now would be a good a time as any—seeing as I’m aiming a gun at you.” Seokmin says pointedly.

Soonyoung squirms under the weight of his gaze. He looks disgruntled and miserable, but he lifts his chin defiantly. “I-I can’t. I don’t fair very well under pressure.”

“In what situation would you be tied up and attempting to escape _without_ pressure?”

“Dammit,” Soonyoung huffs, like it honestly hasn’t occurred to him. “Uhm, perhaps you could loosen—”

Seokmin shakes his head, mouth quirking into an amused curve. “I don’t think so.”

He meets Soonyoung’s eyes for a moment, then walks around the bed toward him. Soonyoung holds himself tighter, as if he’s expecting some kind of instant attack.

Instead, Seokmin takes hold of a chair. He drags it over to sit beside Soonyoung, then takes a seat in it, facing him. “I appreciate you restraining yourself, as I’m kind of on a schedule here, but you were a pain in the ass to track down, so I’m not about to balance the scales by loosening _anything_.”

Soonyoung stiffens, his eyes flash. “Whatever it is you want—you won’t get a word out of me.”

“Is that so?” Seokmin says dryly.

“Better men than you have tried. Do your worst!” Soonyoung spits, thrashing angrily now. The bottoms of his feet flash pink as he wriggles into bed.

Seokmin’s reaching for him before he’s realized what he’s doing. He draws one long finger lightly along the bottom of Soonyoung’s upturned bare foot.

He’s not disappointed by the response.

Soonyoung’s nothing more than a wriggling mess on the bed, releasing a shriek that sounds a lot like “what the fuck!?”

Seokmin does it again, to the other foot and—

“Fuck! Stop—that tickles.” Soonyoung croaks. He looks flushed and a little embarrassed.  

Seokmin shrugs, but he knows he’s smiling when he reaches out again to grasp Soonyoung by the ankle. “I’m no interrogator, but I guess I just found a way of making you talk.”

Soonyoung tries to kick him away, tries to curl his feet up under him, but Seokmin has a firm grip of the rope binding his ankles and doesn’t hesitate to pin his legs firmly down as he tickles him mercilessly.

"You son of a bitch! I'm gonna fucking string your balls through your teeth!"

"What would the neighbours think?" Seokmin asks.

"You come here like some—"

"I'm perfectly happy to leave you alone," Seokmin says, stopping Soonyoung from squirming. "Just give me the information I want and I won’t gag you with your own socks again and leave you in the middle of the road for a bus to run over.”

There is a pause, in which Seokmin is fairly sure Soonyoung is weighing the merits of wandering into the territory of further verbal evisceration against the memory of being knocked unconscious and tied with his own shoe laces.

“What information?” is what Soonyoung decides on, and Seokmin grins.

He forces himself to let Soonyoung’s ankle go. It’s an effort.

He was rather enjoying that.

“The man you captured yesterday, the small one in the basement level of the bank—where is he?”

“Oh, so you’re with _them_.” Soonyoung says, red-faced, gritting his teeth. “Now I have _two_ reasons to kill you.”

Seokmin sighs gustily and reaches for Soonyoung’s foot again. The skin is getting chaffed from where he keeps tugging against the bindings. It's such a beautiful red.

“No—don’t!” Soonyoung squeals, jerking his foot away. “He’s gone—okay! The boss released him and he drove off. I have no idea where he is.”

Seokmin shifts back, arching a dubious eyebrow. “Hold up. You’re telling me, Choi Seungcheol released a man who tried to steal from him? Why don’t I believe you?”

“It’s true! I swear it.” Soonyoung pants, trying to roll to the other side of the bed. “He gave him his 400,000 dollars, then let him drive off.”

Seokmin shakes his head and hauls him back into the centre. “I don’t have time for your _lies_.”

As he rests one knee on the bed, a buzzing comes from the phone resting on the night-stand.

Seokmin moves to check it, keeping an eye on Soonyoung to make sure he doesn’t manage to free his wrists.

There’s a single message flashing up on the screen when Seokmin swipes it open.

 

Boss  
  
Where the fuck are you?  


Seokmin weathers his lip anxiously; even via text, Choi Seungcheol is intimidating. He can’t imagine what it feels like to actually _work_ for the guy.

When he looks over at the bed, Soonyoung’s still lying on his back, but he’s propped on his elbows, frowning.

“Who is it?”

“Your _boss_. He wants to know where the fuck _you_ are.” Seokmin grunts, setting the phone down on the nightstand.

An idea occurs to him then, and he picks it up again. “I should _probably_ answer him—so he doesn’t get suspicious and send someone over.” He grins, swiping it open. 

The phone is brand new, clearly to replace the one Seokmin had stolen. There’s hardly any apps, but the camera function works just fine. Seokmin takes a step back and aims it in Soonyoung’s general direction.

He knows he's smiling like a cat who got the cream, the canary  _and_  a particularly fat mouse, but he can't help it.

“Oh my god, what are you _doing_?” Soonyoung croaks.

“Letting him know that you’re _preoccupied_. I’m sure he’d appreciate some evidence of it.” Seokmin says, centring the viewfinder and snapping a photograph.

Soonyoung looks momentarily distraught. It only lasts a second—then he visibly regathers himself. His jaw tightens, and the tendons in his neck cord. “Don’t you fucking dare do what I think you’re thinking of doing!”

Seokmin makes a show of examining the photograph and smiling widely.

“Oh, very sexy. How should I caption it? Should I keep it simple, or should I go for a pun like— _Sorry, can’t make it into work today._ _Kind of tied up at the moment boss. Lol_?”

That seems to make Soonyoung light up with anger, because he starts really struggling then, bucking and thrashing and doing his best to get the ropes to loosen. But he’s tied himself _real_ good and all he succeeds in doing is rucking up the bed sheets and chafing his wrists.

“Can’t wait to see what his reply is going to be.” Seokmin grins, typing out a quick caption and pressing send.

“Don’t you dare!” Soonyoung snarls. Then she switches tactics immediately and whimpers, “Don’t send it— _please_.”

Seokmin spreads his hands, desolate. “Too late.”

Soonyoung gives him a flat, baleful stare, “Asshole!”

He’s trying to be expressive with his eyes, but Seokmin’s metaphorically sticking his fingers in his ears.

“That’s a great idea actually! We can do that next. I’m sure your boss would _love_ getting a picture of your peachy asshole.”

Soonyoung opens his mouth to yell something unflattering no doubt, but the phone buzzes in Seokmin’s hand with another incoming message.

 

Boss  
  
Practicing again huh? Fine. See you tomorrow I guess :D  


Seokmin frowns. That wasn’t the response he was expecting.

Choi Seungcheol just sent him a smiley face. Granted, the smiley face was for Soonyoung, but still.....Mob bosses using emojis?

The world is suddenly a very strange place.

“What did he reply with? Did he like the photo?” Soonyoung says, sounding weirdly hopeful.

“He doesn’t seem that all surprised actually.” Seokmin says, frowning. He puts the phone back and scratches his head. “I’m beginning to think this isn’t the first naked photograph you’ve sent him.”

“I may have drunk texted him once. Ages ago. He never replied back. We don’t really talk about it.” Soonyoung gives a faint shrug, as if this is minor information that he doesn’t care much about, but the colour is high in his cheeks, and he’s deliberately avoiding eye contact.

Seokmin lets his mouth fall open in exaggerated surprise.

“Holy shit. _Someone has a crush on their boss!”_ He singsongs.

Soonyoung flushes from head to toe. “Shut your fucking mouth!”

He’s angry and embarrassed, Seokmin can plainly see, confirming the _‘I have a unrequited crush on my boss’_ theory beyond a shadow of a doubt.

“Oh, hush, hush.” Seokmin pats him on the head, taking pity on him. Poor thing riles himself up so quickly.

“Hyung?” A voice suddenly calls from the doorway.

Seokmin startles so badly he almost fires his gun.

He spins to find a young man standing there, a frown slowly growing on his face as he takes in the scene. The man looks around seventeen, maybe nineteen years old. He’s a little on the shorter side, with light brown-hair and carrying a blue backpack on both shoulders.

A boyfriend? A younger brother perhaps?

Neither of those options sit well with Seokmin.

“Uhm— _hello_.” Seokmin says tentatively. He looks at Soonyoung, but Soonyoung isn't looking back. He’s is staring straight at the newcomer—face pale and eyes wide.

“Channie? What are you doing back so early?”

The young man stares back, the space between his eyes slowly disappearing in a furrow. He wrinkles his nose, then with a jerk of her head says, “Ew—Hyung. I told you to warn me if you were planning on inviting guys over to role-play again. I’m still mentally scarred from last time!”

“No, Channie! You don’t understand—it’s not a role-play this time!” Soonyoung tries to protest, but _Channie_ , in his wisdom, has already scurried away.

Seokmin hears the front door slam shut, then turns slowly, eyebrows raised in exaggeration “Who was that?”

“My brother.” Soonyoung sighs lightly. There's a pause, and then he says, “Please don’t hurt him—he’s a good kid.”

Seokmin considers this seriously. The only thing he comes up with is, “Let me get this straight. Your brother walks into your bedroom, sees you restrained and naked on the bed, and a man with a gun standing over you and the first conclusion he comes to is— _role-play_. I feel like I’m missing vital context here.”

Soonyoung shrugs, an awkward gesture from his current position on the bed. “In my free time, I occasionally like to dabble in a spot of hostage role-play.”

 _“Hostage role-play?”_ Seokmin says slowly, sure that he is missing a few pages of the book Soonyoung is on.

Soonyoung’s mouth tilts up, self-deprecating, “I have a stressful job okay. It helps me unwind. Don’t judge me.”

“No, I’m not. Each to their own. I was just wondering how that would work, is all.” Seokmin shrugs.

Soonyoung bites down on his lip. “Well—uhm—I meet guys online and invite men over, and they pretend to take me hostage and tie me up. It’s a lot like this actually—expect it usually ends in sex.”

“This could end in sex _too_ if you play your cards right.” Seokmin says automatically; it has never until this moment occurred to him to actually hit on Soonyoung.

Soonyoung stares at him, his eyes flat.

A few seconds tick past, then his gaze darts quickly in the direction of the dresser. “There’s lube in my top drawer.”

* * *

 

Forty minutes later and it’s fair to say that Seokmin has lost sight of his objective.

He doesn’t remember what he came here for.

It was important, certainly, but now this— _this_ is more important.

“I’ve never met anyone who was so into this. Everyone says I’m a freak.” Soonyoung pants heavily some time later when Seokmin has him face down on the bed and is pushing slowly into him.

"Shh, shh, you’re not a freak. Now, make that little noise you made," Seokmin says, curling his body over Soonyoung’s back so he can press his mouth against his neck.

“What noise?”

“That scared little whimper you made when I first walked in.” Seokmin explains.

"You mean the one where I cried out in fear of my life because the murdering thug that took me hostage and tied me up and threatened my family was probably going to fuck me while holding a gun to my head, that noise?" Soonyoung says, in punctuated little turns of phrase while Seokmin slides into him and then back out.

"Oh god don’t stop," Seokmin groans. He loves dirty talk. He sinks back in and Soonyoung shakes beneath him, pushes himself onto Seokmin’s cock. "Please. I’ll let you do anything you want to me next time."

"I want to lock you in a gas station bathroom overnight," Soonyoung sighs, but promptly, like he’s been thinking about it, like he’s been lying alone in his bed at night, touching himself, thinking about all the dirty, dirty things he wants to do to Seokmin.

"You kinky little fuck," Seokmin says admiringly.

Soonyoung is so tight around his cock, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the bed; Seokmin is never going to have sex with anyone else ever again.

"Turn over," he says. "I want to look into your eyes while I make love to you for the first time."

"You sound like a serial killer," Soonyoung snorts, but turns over.

Seokmin pushes one of Soonyoung’s knees to his chest, opening up his fucked open little ass so he can thrust right back in.

Soonyoung's mouth falls open. He gasps, a brief sound that Seokmin doesn't let linger for too long because he's grabbing Soonyoung's hips and fucking him like he means it.

"Now. Tell me more about this gas station scenario," Seokmin pants.

 

* * *

 

They stop for the night at the first motel they find. Jun laughs a little when Minghao wrinkles his nose at it.

"Yeah, roadside motels are seedy, but it pays to keep a low profile." he says, trying to ruffle Minghao's hair. Minghao's too busy fighting him off to argue. 

The bored-looking girl at the desk pushes aside her magazine as Jun walks in. She’s cute—little and quietly curvy, poured into tight jeans, dark hair pulled back into a tight braid. She looks like she’d have a nice smile.

"Room for the night?" Jun asks, sliding a credit card over.

"Yep. Maybe a few."

Her gaze shifts past him, through the window to where Minghao is probably standing next to their stolen vehicle and fidgeting anxiously. Looking suspicious as fuck basically. "Double?"

"Single, please. King, if you’ve got it."

She glances up from Wang Jackson’s credit card, smirking a little and arching one thin, meticulously plucked eyebrow. Jun grins back, doesn’t waste time explaining.

If he’s learned anything from the last few days, it is that he well and truly does not give a fuck.

Besides, he’s tired. It’s been a long day.

The girl doesn’t press it, thankfully, just hands over his card and two keys with no additional commentary.

Jun glances at her nametag. "Thanks, Yoon-ah. You have a good night."

Yoon-ah softens a little, meeting his gaze again before turning back to her magazine. "Enjoy your stay."

* * *

 

“They didn’t have a twin room?” Minghao asks, glancing around the room with its pistachio green wallpaper and faded lampshades. 

It’s not the best place Jun’s slept in, but it’s not the worst either. Although the king size bed is so appallingly lumpy Jun is tempted to wrestle the mattresses off its frame and flip it over to see if there’s a dead body stitched inside.

“They did not. This was the last room available.” Jun _lies_.

Minghao studies him carefully. “Last room huh? Funny—I don’t see many cars parked outside.”

Jun smothers a small smile, “Lots of foot traffic in this area.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Lots of foot traffic—on the expressway.” Minghao sounds jocular, not even pretending to believe the idea.

Jun’s suddenly floored by an irresistible urge, and he doesn't bother trying to fight it. He grabs Minghao by the elbow two feet from the bed, spins him close and kisses him.

Logically, he knows it's a bad idea. Most of him doesn't care, especially once Minghao's startled posture dissolves and leaves him pressing eagerly into the kiss instead, mouth opening willingly under the insistent pressure of Jun’s lips.

Vaguely, Jun realizes this is their first kiss. It’s a little rough, but it’s equally perfect—better than he imagined it would be. Minghao's lips are soft, his tongue teasing as he licks his way into Jun's mouth, and Jun wants  _everything_.

Groaning, he plunges fingers into Minghao’s hair, relishing in the silky feel of it.

He manages to keep his hands from straying too far, and lets go the second time Minghao tries to pull away. Their eyes lock, and Jun can almost read the words behind those wide eyes.

“Jesus.” Minghao says breathlessly when they pull apart. “I just met you—and this is crazy.”

Jun nips at the corner of Minghao’s mouth and shifts backward slightly to give him an enquiring look, “Is that you Carly Rae Jepsen?”

That earns him a truly impressive eye roll, right before Minghao shoves him onto the bed.

Jun tumbles over freely, arms spread, and waits as Minghao straddles his hips.

* * *

 

Minghao's fall is inevitable, such a small step to giving in, and how can something that feels like this be a bad idea?

His knows he’s still amped up on adrenaline, and he knows distantly that logic should trump sensation, but right now he doesn't have the space in his head to care.

They slide far enough up the bed to get more comfortable, and then Jun is all over him. Hands and lips and even teeth, a knee sliding deliberately between Minghao's legs to offer the friction they both need.

It shouldn't be this perfect. All they do is rub against each other. Their clothes don't go anywhere, aside from shirts getting rucked up by the slide of exploring hands, and it shouldn't feel like the best goddamn sex Minghao has ever had.

They both come right in their pants, and Minghao is pretty sure he'll never feel this incredible again.

They lie there to the muted sounds of the television for a long, warm stretch after that. Entwined and sticky in their clothes, heads still a little bit fuzzy with post coital lassitude. The ceiling fan beats lazy circles above them, hardly cooling but neither of them wants to move, even though this is going to  _suck_  come morning if they don't get up and wash.

Minghao can't bring himself to climb out of Jun's arms, but it’s becoming too warm to lie draped all over each other like this. He moves back to allow some space between them, his shoulder half off the bed and one hand dangling into space. With his other hand, he adjusts the front of his trousers.

“If my suit wasn’t ruined before, it definitely is now.”

Jun makes a noncommittal sound, then rolls over to face him. “No offence, but it was an ugly suit. I’ll buy you another one. A better one. Then we’ll ruin it too.”

Minghao rolls his eyes, though he’s quietly pleased. “With Jackson’s card?”

Jun grins. “He owes you that much at least.”

Minghao laughs and reaches out to runs his hand up Jun’s side, feeling the ribs beneath, and around his back. Jun’s lean and narrow, but solid. His muscles are firm beneath the thin T-shirt. Minghao wraps his hand around the back of his neck, feeling the tiny razored hairs at his nape. It’s a harmless gesture, and doesn’t seem to call for any response, but Jun closes his eyes and leans into the touch, smiling.

Minghao lets himself ponder the strangeness of the situation. If anyone had said his contingency plan would involve a hostage situation, an ex-con and a dip in the river followed by a steamy grinding session in a crummy motel room—he would never have accepted the job from Jeonghan. But now that he’s here—it’s a near perfect outcome.

“So, now that it’s later—and Choi Seungcheol’s men are nowhere in sight—what’s your big plan?”

Not the moment, not the mood, but he genuinely needs to know.

He doesn’t know what to expect from this Choi fella, but Jun seems to have some understanding of how dangerous he is. If Minghao wants to keep his head on his shoulders, it’s probably best they stick together.

Jun is silent for a long, pensive stretch, arm sliding across his stomach.

After a minute, Minghao starts thinking that maybe Jun is actually ignoring him on purpose. He's about to raise hell on the subject, except Jun noses into his hair and admits, “I haven’t really thought past this point if I’m being honest. I really just wanted to get you in bed.”

Minghao promptly pinches him in the side hard. “Not funny.”

“Ow, Hey—I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” Jun laughs. He runs his hand down Minghao’s side and holds his hip. “I have a plan—okay. It’s just, well—still in the planning stages.”

“You have a plan—in the planning stages. What a ringing endorsement. I am filled with confidence.” Minghao huffs.

He feels Jun’s fingers tighten on his hip, pulling him in to kiss him lightly. “Don’t worry about it. I know what I’m doing. And even when I _don’t_ —I’m a born improviser.”

Minghao sighs. “I’ve never been very good at that. _Improvising_.”

“Well, you need to get good at it. The best way to avoid capture is by being unpredictable. You need to be able to think fast and change your strategy at a moments notice. Especially if we’re to dodge Choi Seungcheol’s painful retribution.”

“I’m not sure I’m buying into the hype around this guy.” Minghao murmurs, closing his eyes briefly and stretching out on the bed. “You and Jackson are making him out to sound like some sort of _boogey-man_. I mean—what’s the worst he can do?” He laughs.

There’s a meaningful silence from the space next to him.

When Minghao opens an eye and finds Jun looking at him, stiff-faced. 

“He can do irreparable things. Trust me on this—I know.”

Minghao props himself on an elbow and looks down on him. “You’ve had dealings with him?”

Jun’s face has gone tight, his lips pinching together and his eyes going hard.

“Yeah— _unfortunately_.”

“ _When_?”

Jun looks at him quietly for a moment, then sighs. He reaches into his pocket and takes out something small. He holds it up for a moment, letting Minghao take a good look at it.

It’s a Casino chip, black and white, with a smooth and shiny surface.

Jun smooths his thumb over the markings, faded with age, then his gaze turns introspective.

“When I was just starting out, almost six years ago now, I had a mentor—Lee Hyun-woo. He was a living legend, taught me everything I know. Taught me how to cheat, how to blend in with crowd, how to disappear when I needed to. He showed me how to forge documents, money, even casino chips that were so precise the floor manager couldn’t tell them apart. We had a great partnership, and he was an awesome friend. Together we were pulling in good money counting cards and pulling small cons in Casino’s around Asia. It was all going perfectly, until we tried it in one of Choi Seungcheol’s Casinos.” Jun voice trails off, sombre, soft as falling rain. 

He lets the pause draw out another few seconds, fingers restless as he rolls the chip back and forth.

“We didn’t realise we’d been made until we went to cash in our chips—and security got a hold of us and took us out back instead. I was only 18 at the time, and I didn’t realise how much shit we were in—but Hyun-woo knew. He offered to return all the money, not to step foot in Choi’s casino again—but that wasn’t enough for them. They wanted to send a message—because that’s what Choi Seungcheol’s all about—sending messages. Hyun-woo was given two options, accept the punishment himself—or have _me_ punished.”

“What happened?” Minghao asks, making a  _go on_  gesture with his hand.

Jun swallows. It makes a dry click, “Hyun-woo was lead into a separate room to talk it out, and a few minutes later the screaming started.”

“Fuck.” Minghao whispers. “He picked himself.”

“Yeah.” Jun sighs. It’s the first time Minghao’s heard him sound bitter.

Minghao takes a breath, “What happened to him?”

Jun shakes his head, like it doesn’t bare thinking about. He turns to look up at the ceiling, hand clenching around the poker chip rhythmically. Minghao waits in silence, and when Jun turns, his face is drained of colour. His eyes are haunted, too wide.

“Let’s just say—by the time they were finished, all his fingers were facing the wrong way.”

Minghao feels a chill jolt through him. “Jesus.”

Jun nods grimly. “He was still alive—but effectively retired for good. I got him to a hospital, but he checked himself out the next day and dropped off the map. All of his aliases burned, his accounts emptied—I never saw him again. What made it all worse was, I was allowed to leave unharmed with a share of my winnings and a final parting message from Choi Seungcheol himself _—‘You need better friends.”_

“What was _that_ supposed to mean?”

Jun shrugs, halfway. “I don’t know—I guess he was _taunting_ me, about how we couldn’t outwit him or something. I promised myself that day—I’d go back and con him out of every single penny he had, for Hyun-woo. Guess I’ve been too chicken to do it.” He mutters, a rawness in his voice. 

Minghao sucks his lip. “I don’t blame you Junhui—I mean, fuck. That’s terrifying.”

There’s a long silence. Then Jun takes a deep breath, meets Minghao's gaze, his eyes bright and keen, “Now it feels like the right time.”

There’s a frown threatening to overtake Minghao’s face.

He's not uncomfortable, precisely, but he's thinking about being uncomfortable, especially since he doesn't want Jun to say what Minghao thinks he's about to say.

“Right time for _what_ , exactly?”

Jun tosses the poker chip in the air and catches it, tucking it neatly in Minghao’s shirt pocket. He smiles, wildly photogenic and dangerous. Himself again.

“How good are you at playing poker?”

* * *

 

“That,” Seungcheol says, collapsing into the leather club chair next to the one that Jihoon is sitting in, “Was good steak. You know, I haven’t had steak in ages. In fact, that was just about the most I’ve ever eaten in…”

He trails off, and raises a hand at the servant hovering close by, who double-times over. “Bourbon, please. And are the items I asked for ready?”

“Yes, sir.” The man nods, “Mr Boo dropped them off a few hours ago.”

“Excellent. Bring them.”

Jihoon, sunk in his own chair with his own glass in his hand, stares wordlessly at the multi-million-dollar view outside the window.  

Unsurprisingly, Seungcheol has a place in Gangnam, overlooking a park.

Jihoon didn't catch the address on the way here, not that it matters. But Seungcheol has his own personal elevator that takes him from the garage right up to the penthouse, and the black marble lobby and the high ceilings and the fucking _Renoir_ painting hanging on the wall are all leaving Jihoon a little dazed.

This whole _day_ has taken on a loopy, surreal quality.

Jihoon puts his glass up to his face and inhales the whiskey, to break the illusion. “Thanks for dinner by the way. I don’t remember thanking you for that. Or the suit. Or the job for that matter. I haven’t really thanked you for anything, actually. I guess it’s been kind of surreal for me and I don’t believe any of it has happened yet.”

Seungcheol’s smile is genial.

“Well, it’s not quite over yet. I have some things for you—” He says, turning towards the servant that has returned with his Bourbon, a binder and a thick brown envelope.

Jihoon says nothing, but his hand locks tightly around his glass as he watches Seungcheol accept the items, peer into the envelope and wave the servant away.

Apparently satisfied, he dumps the binder down onto the small table between with an indelicate thud.

“This,” Seungcheol says, pointing out the binder, “Is a copy of my business portfolio. Deathly boring, but you’ll want to read it. And this,” He goes on, pulling a cell phone from the envelope and setting it down, “Is a phone for you while you’re—”

“I have a phone.” Jihoon blurts out, choking down his drink inelegantly.

“Yes, but I already know the number for this one, you see,” Seungcheol says, picking it up and wagging it in the air. “Very convenient that way. Take it please?”

Jihoon rolls his eyes, but does.

Seungcheol smirks and looks away out the window. “I had one of my tech specialist set it up for you. You’ll find it already has all the relevant numbers imputed in the contacts, as well as a GPS tracking device for your car. My number is on speed-dial one, by the way. Don’t be a stranger.”

“Okay.” Jihoon says, sliding the cell into his pocket in time to accept the set of car keys Seungcheol offers.

“It’s a Maserati Alfieri.” Seungcheol says, pressing the keys into his hand. “I picked it for you myself. But if you don’t like the model—pick one you do, and we’ll have it modified accordingly.”

“But—I have a bike.” Jihoon murmurs, setting down his glass.

Seungcheol makes a side-to-side motion with his head, “Yes, yes—I know you prefer bikes. But a car is _safer_. You can’t bullet proof a motorbike Mr Lee.”

Next, Seungcheol plucks a leather wallet out of the envelope and hands it over.

“You’ll find your security access card inside, and a credit card to buy whatever else you’ll need.” Seungcheol explains, which is really nothing more than Jihoon should have expected. Still, he pauses to open the wallet, lingering over the bank cards inside printed with his name Mr Lee.

Jesus.

He’s only been employed by the guy for a single day and he _already_ has a card with his name on it.

Say what you will about Choi Seungcheol, but he’s fucking efficient.

“It’s got my name on it.” Jihoon says, stunned.

He glances instinctively at Seungcheol, whose face hasn't changed.

“Well, you _are_ going to need some way of accessing your money—unless you were planning on keeping it all under your _mattress_ or something.” Seungcheol says without laughing, but not without amusement.

Jihoon mutters a  _humph!_  to himself and pockets he wallet.

“Right—thanks.” He says, taking a swig from his glass and setting it down empty. “And when will I be getting my minimalist designer penthouse with it’s million-dollar view?”

Only when Seungcheol freezes does Jihoon realize that he might have taken it as something other than a joke.

"It’s a joke," Jihoon mumbles. "I didn't mean to – you know I don't expect – "

"Err," Seungcheol says, and that's not a good beginning for  _any_  sentence. "It's just that I may have done, ah, exactly that."

Jihoon looks at him, slow and still. "Seriously?"

"Yes." Seungcheol fidgets, scratching the back of his neck and not quite looking at Jihoon. "I wasn’t sure what your living arrangements were, so I took the liberty of arranging something suitable." He pauses to rummage in the envelope.

At length, he pulls out a set of keys and hands them to Jihoon.

“The keys— _to your apartment.”_

“I—no.” Jihoon shakes his head emphatically. He looks at Seungcheol and hastens to add, “I don’t need anything else from you. I _have_ my own place.”

Which isn’t true. He’s been living in a rental, month-to-month, until he decided what he wants to do.

Seungcheol smiles. It's a beautiful smile that brings out his cheekbones. “And now you have a new one.”

“I don’t _need_ a new one. I like my current apartment.” Jihoon insists, even though a decrepit studio in the dodgiest part of town could hardly compete with what Seungcheol was probably offering.   

Seungcheol looks at him like this is geography class and Jihoon can’t point out Russia on the map. Jihoon sits back and lets him do it.

“But this one’s closer to where I live.” He says after a minute. “It’s in the same building actually, just the next floor down. I like my head of security to be close by. Just in case."

Jihoon laughs, a tad hysterical. “Just in case what? You have the sudden urge for a sleepover party where we make hot chocolate and bleach each other’s assholes?”

Seungcheol’s smile widens, baring just a little flash of teeth, “If you like.”

Jihoon bites back a reply along the lines of  _I wouldn’t let you anywhere near my asshole_ , because it would be protesting too much, and untrue besides.

He sidesteps the issue neatly: “I’ll think about it. In the meantime, I’ll just stick with my own place for now. I’ve already taken too much from you.”

The resigned sigh is instantaneous, and Jihoon almost feels bad for squashing that manic spark of intent. Almost, but not quite.

“Fine.” Seungcheol huffs, giving Jihoon a sour, challenging look. “Can I at least have your address?”

Jihoon levels him his own challenging look. “I won’t give you my full name, but you think I’ll tell you where I live?”

Seungcheol sits back, his hands dangling loose over the chair’s arms. A slight, disbelieving smile on his lips. “Don’t you trust me, Mr Lee?”

“Not in the slightest.” Jihoon says, with the straightest face he can manage.        

Visibly, Seungcheol deflates and Jihoon allows the smile he's been hiding to show. 

“But I guess I need to start somewhere.” Jihoon drawls. He rubs his hands over his eyes, and then he grabs a pen that's lying on the table. Uncapping it between his teeth, he rips a corner off the envelope and scribbles his address down.

“If you _are_ ever planning on stopping by,” He says, handing Seungcheol the piece of paper “—I’d advise against wearing a suit. That’s an invitation to get stabbed where I live.”

“Noted.” Seungcheol nods. He doesn’t press Jihoon for more information, or for anything at all. He takes a long swig from his glass, sets it on the table beside him, and leans forward with his elbows on his knees, poised to go.

“Speaking of suits—” He says, gesturing vaguely behind them. “Don’t forget yours.”

“My what?” Jihoon says, whipping his head around.

Behind them are stacks and stacks of thick, black and white boxes. An entire wall in the middle of the lobby made out of the new wardrobe he’d unknowingly selected earlier that day.

Jihoon is wondering how the fuck he’s going to fit all of it into a two-door sports car when suddenly Seungcheol is on the phone with one of his people, scheduling for everything to be picked up and taken back to his apartment within the hour.

Seriously. His efficiency is awesome. Jihoon can’t help but imagine what he’d be like in bed—

No, no—abort thoughts!

“So, tomorrow—I’ll meet you back here and we'll head to HQ and I can introduce to the rest of the guys,” Seungcheol says, clapping him on the back. He stands up, turning to grab his jacket from the back of the chair, but Jihoon stops him, gripping him hard at the wrist.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Jihoon asks, an edge to his voice like cut glass.

Seungcheol looks at him as though it’s a trick question. “What do you mean?”

Jihoon stares at the wall of suits, at the car keys and the new phone, at the wallet with his own credit card inside— _the key to an apartment if he wants it_ —and thinks about Michelin star fine dining, about ridiculous men’s boutiques and ridiculous job offers, about how Seungcheol would have put a bullet in any other man’s head if they tried to do what Jihoon did.

“If this is some elaborate ploy that ends in me getting fucked over—if this is all one big joke to you, I’d rather you just killed me now then-” Jihoon’s voice stalls out as Seungcheol roughly pinches his cheeks together.  

“Stop. This isn’t a joke nor some elaborate revenge scheme Mr Lee—because, frankly, I don’t have time for that kinda shit.” Seungcheol says gruffly.

He loosens his hold on Jihoon’s cheeks, but doesn’t drop his hand. Instead he pinches Jihoon’s chin and tilts his face up. “Nobody is going to hurt you while you work for me, and despite how you feel about it now, the fact is, Mr Lee, you and I are going to have to trust one another.”

Jihoon blinks, regarding the strange sight of his face being held in Seungcheol’s hand.

As Seungcheol spoke, his breathing had grown sharp and stuttered, but he refused to let his gaze waver. By the time Seungcheol has finished, Jihoon nearly flinches from the honesty he finds there.

“O-kay.” His voice comes out muted, croaky. He clears his throat and tries to sound like an adult again. “Understood.”

Seungcheol brushes his thumb over Jihoon’s lower lip, slow and deliberate.

“Good,” He says, finally letting him go. “Go get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He lifts two fingers in farewell as he saunters away.

The second he’s out of sight, Jihoon collapse back into his chair.

Now that he's removed from Seungcheol’s distracting presence, all sorts of little thoughts come to niggle at him. Mainly questions along the lines of  _Have you gone insane? What's happening to your life? How can you take his word that this is not a trap?_

Because it's too good, that's the problem.

Hell, Jihoon can't even bring himself to _not_ trust Seungcheol. The logical thing to do, now, would be to assume that Seungcheol is out there planning some devious scheme whereby Jihoon shoulders every criminal charge he has ever been accused of. But Jihoon's brain refuses to even go there. On the scale of paranoid scenarios,  _Seungcheol will use me as a scapegoat—_ is right out there with  _Martians will conquer the Earth and I'll be forced to form a resistance movement_.

Then again—it’s Seungcheol. Anything is possible.

* * *

 

Jeonghan in a gritty-eyed half sleep when he hears his bedroom door shut.  

He opens his eyes to darkness, and it takes him a few seconds to remember: Jisoo, the church, the failed heist. He finds the light on the nightstand, clicks it on and sees that it’s dark outside too.

He only meant to sleep a couple of hours. But he hasn’t slept properly since he got here, and his body doesn’t take that kind of abuse as well as it once did.

Sitting up quickly, he finds the room empty. But he knows Jisoo’s been checking up on him, because the jug of water has been refilled and there’s a fresh set of clothes neatly folded in the chair next to his bed. A quick glance up reveals the handcuff has been removed.

Huh.

Well—if that’s not an invitation to get the fuck up, he doesn’t know what it.

Jeonghan hauls himself out of bed, feeling like his limbs are made of lead and asphalt. A series of cricks down his neck and back make him groan as he sits up and stretches. Standing requires a couple attempts, but he manages to dress himself and amble over to the door.

It’s not locked—and Jeonghan is mildly amazed that Jisoo is giving him free rein.

He’s going to poke around, of course—it’s a given. But Jisoo doesn’t seem to care. Maybe he doesn’t really consider this house home, or maybe he’s one of those rare individuals that’s got nothing to hide.

In the hallway outside, a pistol is waiting on a table across from the bedroom door, on top of a leather biker jacket and a holster; Jeonghan pauses to recognize them as his own, then pulls the holster on over his shirt and checks his gun.

The clip and the chamber are empty—which is a _little_ disconcerting. Though Jeonghan had no real plans to shoot up the place on the way out, a gun without bullets in his opinion, is just an incriminating paperweight.

Regardless, Jeonghan tucks it into his holster and pulls his jacket on, smoothing it over the gun—then goes around putting his head through every other door he can find.

He doesn’t bother to walk lightly. If Jisoo wants him to stop, he can say so.

Not that there’s much to see of course. For someone’s home, it’s all surprisingly, unpleasantly _sterile_.

The first room is an office, lined with bookshelves and magazine files, a drafting desk, a large dual-screen iMac. The next is another spare bedroom, furnished only with an obligatory night table and a naked bed. The last door, at the far end of the hall, must be Jisoo’s room—and the handle twists in Jeonghan’s grip, but doesn’t budge.

Locked.

Jeonghan grins—maybe Jisoo _does_ have something to hide after all.   

There's noise coming from the downstairs, the lazy clinking sounds that can only mean coffee, and Jeonghan follows them like a zombie.

It’s quiet downstairs, oddly so.

As Jeonghan makes his way through the living room, he spots Jisoo through the kitchen doorway, leaning against the counter with a cup in his hand.

“There you are. Thanks for the change of clothes. They fit me perf—” Jeonghan freezes in the doorway when his gaze settles on a second man sitting at the table. A man with a square head and a square jaw and wearing a non-descript black suit that smells of government funding.

He’s watching Jeonghan closely, and there’s something about his expression that rings a warning bell.

Jeonghan stands up a little straighter, feeling wary.

“Mr Yoon,” The man begins, gesturing to the seat across from him. “Please, won’t you sit. I’d very much like to talk to you.”

On instinct, Jeonghan check his wrist for a watch that isn’t there. “I really oughtta get going.”

The man shares a look with Jisoo—and in the same movement, he pulls out a Glock from under the table and aims it steadily at him.  

Jeonghan’s eyes widen, his body stiffens.

“I insist.” The man says, and it’s not a suggestion this time.

Jeonghan keeps his breathing even, his shoulders relaxed, and doesn't take his eyes off him as he moves.

"Would you like a drink?" The man asks after Jeonghan has taken his seat. "Coffee? Tea?"

"No," Jeonghan says. "Thank you for the offer."

There is a long moment where the man regards him in silence. He’s of small of stature, and there are long streaks of grey in his dark hair. At a glance, he doesn't look dangerous, but his eyes are hard, and carved out of ice and the way he handles his gun speaks of experience.

After a tense moment, the man leans back in his chair, his eyes hooded. Jeonghan thinks he detects a faint, odd sort of amusement in his expression.

“How does your shoulder feel?”

“Fine.” Jeonghan says, forcing his voice cheerful. “Uhm—a little stiff, but the painkillers Jisoo’s been giving me have really helped.”

The man has poxed skin but perfect teeth. He bares them in a grin. “Yes. I hear he’s been playing quite the nursemaid our Sergeant Jisoo.”

Jeonghan composes and dismisses several dozen replies before settling on an incredulous, “Sergeant?”

Jisoo pulls himself straight and nods.

“Great.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Apologies for the long chapter. But since I haven't updated in a month, I thought I should speed things along.  
> 2) I know I have tagged Verkwan and have failed to feature them, but they will have their moment too. I wouldn't have tagged them otherwise and I really do hate it when people tag ships in a fic, then only have them wave at each other longingly! FFS!  
> 3) I've just noticed, I seem to really enjoy writing Soonyoung as a little perv in my fics. :D Bless him.  
> 4) Thank you for reading, and as always, feedback appreciated.


	8. The Ace of Spades

“Am I under arrest?” Jeonghan says, with a bored sense of inevitability.

The man gives him a long, steady look. “That’s completely up to you Mr Yoon.”

“Well in that case, I’d like to _not_ be under arrest. But I’m guessing it’s not going to be that _easy_.”

The man flashes a bright, wincing white smile at him, all forced cheerfulness. It’s in no way comforting. He’s the kind of person who makes niceness terrifying.

“That is _also_ completely up to you. Or should I say—your _choices_.”

Jeonghan manages not to roll his eyes, but it's a close thing. “Are all cops this vague? Or is it just you?”

The man exchanges a long look with Jisoo, before meeting Jeonghan’s gaze solemnly. “Three days ago, you took part in a bank heist which targeted a bank owned by Choi Seungcheol, correct?”

“ _Yes_.” Jeonghan breathes out.

“The heist failed, and you sustained an injury. Now you are in hiding.” The man states.

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow at him. “I wouldn’t go _that_ far. Yeah, I got shot—but I don’t hide from anyone. I’ve been held here against my will, by your— _Sergeant Jisoo_.”

Jisoo’s mouth quirks into a would-be smile, but he doesn’t say anything as the Senior cop continues in the same matter of fact tone. “Perhaps. But I doubt you’re that keen to be meandering out on the streets with Choi Seungcheol’s men looking for you. So, you are _technically_ , in hiding.”

Jeonghan gives a desultory shrug of the shoulder. “Nobody identified me or my crew. And even if they _did_ , I’m not big enough a target for the likes of Choi Seungcheol to want to hunt me down.”

The man pulls a mulish expression. “Mr Choi doesn’t care how small or inconsequential you are. All he cares about it that you attempted to steal from him, and _that_ paints a target on your head.”

“I don’t think—” Jeonghan begins to disagree, but the man talks over him.

“The warehouse you had planned to use as a safehouse has already been compromised.” He says, sliding a photograph across the table towards Jeonghan.

Jeonghan cranes his neck to look at it then slumps back in his seat. It is indeed the location he’d set up for them to all re-group in—only now it’s a burnt-out shell. He swallows around the lump in his throat. “Where any of my guys there?”

The man doesn't appear particularly interested in answering the question, but he does take a moment to consider his response. “It’s hard to say at the moment. There was an explosion, and the fire that resulted was very destructive. Our crime scene unit are still processing the location, and considering that none of your crew have surfaced yet—we can’t eliminate the possibility that someone was killed. We’ll know more later.”

Jeonghan’s eyes slip shut on an unspoken curse—Jihoon was right, this job was a terrible idea—when he opens them again he says, “So, what am I doing here? Is this some kind of witness protection gig?”

There’s a beat of silence and then the man announces, “No. Witness protection is only afforded for people that are _useful_ to the prosecution. You are not a witness—you’re just criminal. A _lowly_ criminal, with a price on his head and nowhere to run.”

Jeonghan does roll his eyes now. “I’m guessing this is where my _choices_ come in to effect?”

The man gives him an appraising look and leans back in her chair. “Precisely. You’re a smart man—I’m sure you see where this is going.”

“No—not really.” Jeonghan shakes his head. “I don’t have anything on Choi Seungcheol. Most guys I know try and avoid him as much as possible. I’m no use to you.”

The expression in the man’s eyes sharpens.

“The very fact that he’s looking to eliminate you gives you some use. You’re a target, and if his prior inclinations are the same, he’ll not be satisfied until you and the rest of your crew are taken care of. We’re relying on that in fact—because we want to be there when it happens.”

“You want to use me as bait?” Jeonghan answers automatically before bursting into, “He’s not going to kill me himself. Guys like him don’t do the deed themselves.”

“We’re well aware of that Mr Yoon—which is why you will only interact with him on one occasion.” The man says, exchanging a brief look with Jisoo. “That is—if you agree to our deal.”

Jisoo doesn't volunteer any information, doesn't make any boasts, doesn't deny anything. His silence is enough to convince Jeonghan he doesn’t approve of the idea.

“You help us bring down Choi Seungcheol and his empire once and for all, and you can walk away a free man.” The man explains—giving no further information on how Jeonghan will actually be involved.

Jeonghan squares his shoulders. “And if I _refuse_?”

“Then you have the right to remain silent.” The man says, his mouth tense at the corners. He stands swiftly from his chair and moves over to the kitchen window, twitching the curtains open to peer out at the street outside. “You can live out your sentence in a maximum security prison where I’m _sure_ you’ll be perfectly safe from Choi Seungcheol’s retribution.”

Jeonghan doesn't need anyone to spell out what he means; there will be plenty of people on the inside willing to take care of him to win favour with Choi Seungcheol.

Gang related murders inside prison walls are as regular as clockwork.

Jeonghan sighs quietly. “That doesn’t sound like much of a choice.”

The man fixes him with a _look_. “It’s more of a choice than you deserve.”

Jeonghan's mouth quirks up at the corner. It’s like being asked to choose whether to hang upside-down over the pit of alligators or the pool of sharks. Neither option is good, and both are going to end badly no matter what choice he makes.

“Arrest me then.” He says dismissively, “I’ve never been good at following orders. I’ll take my chances in prison.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Jisoo chimes in, speaking up for the first time. At Jeonghan’s questioning glance, he explains, “All we’re asking is for you to cooperate with us. We’ll reveal more about our plan as we get closer to the date. It’s safer that way. We can _guarantee_ your safety.”

“No, you can’t.” Jeonghan bites back in reply.

Jisoo looks as if he might argue the point, and Jeonghan clarifies, “You’re probably not the first people to try and take him down, and you won’t be the last. He’s a powerful man, with powerful friends and an uncanny ability to make his enemies disappear, and the fact that I’m even _here_ –and that you’ve resorted to asking for _my_ assistance is proof of how desperate you guys are getting. It was blind luck that you managed to find me passed out in the church, which makes me think this plan of yours is some last-ditch attempt to cover for a previous failure. Whether I help you or not, I’m a dead man. I accept that.”

Jisoo regards him with a critical eye, and for a moment, the world narrows to the two of them. 

“This isn’t just about you either.” Jisoo says, giving him a narrow-eyed look. “Your entire crew is in danger, and your decision impacts on them as well.” He pauses to cock his head. “Or do you not give a shit about them?”

Jeonghan is meant to be insulted by that, he knows, but he finds himself grinning instead, startling a little answering frown out of Jisoo. “Why, Sergeant Jisoo,” he says, “Are you trying to get me to stay? Are you going to miss having me cuffed to your bed?”

Jisoo’s narrowed-eyed look narrows even further. He flexes his jaw and breathes out a heavy sigh. “Are you in or not?”

Jeonghan weathers his lower lip and mulls it over.

He’s a philosopher at heart and subscribes to the theory that there are no guarantees in life, only death. On one hand, if he gets murdered gruesomely —and let’s face it, that’s always been a risk in his line of work—maybe his death will absolve the others of their involvement?

That of course, would depend on how merciful this Choi Seungcheol character is.

On the other hand, if their plan involves him actually interacting with the guy—there might be a way for him to turn the tables in his favour. Jeonghan has never met a plan he didn’t consider open to improvisation, and if the explosion at the warehouse _has_ taken out one of his guys—him and Mr Choi have unfinished business to settle.

“Yeah,” Jeonghan says, kicking his feet up on the table. “I’m in.”

* * *

 

Seokmin wakes up to the soft sound of tapping, the room faintly illuminated by the lights of the Street, far below.

Soonyoung is sprawled on the bed next to him, typing a message on his phone. There’s a half-drunk bottle of water lying between them; Soonyoung nudges it towards him with his knee without a break in typing.

"Thanks," Seokmin says. He drinks. Soonyoung finishes his message and puts the phone on the bedside table.

"Okay, I’m ready," he says.

"Ready for what?" Seokmin says, uncertain. Soonyoung’s face is expectant, but otherwise unreadable.

"You said you were going to lick me off after you came all over me—then such my dick" Soonyoung says, settling himself on the mattress.

He is, Seokmin sees, his eyes adjusting to the low light, almost entirely covered in dried spunk—a big smeary mess on his stomach and a hard-looking dried dribble on his leg, itchy-looking patches on his chest and the bottom of his jaw.

He still looks like a wet dream—but _smells_ like the bear cage at the zoo.

"Okay," Seokmin says. "Right." He drops a soft kiss on Soonyoung’s mouth and then slides his mouth down to the first crusty smudge just over his nipple. Soonyoung reaches up and pushes his face away before he can get his mouth on it.

"What?" Seokmin says.

Soonyoung shoves himself up on his elbows, leans over and flips on the light. "I was joking. I wouldn’t—" he stops, and gives Seokmin a close, considering look. "but you were really going to do it, weren’t you?"

"Yes, well," Seokmin says numbly. He takes his hand off Soonyoung’s hip and leans back, "I’m a man of my word."

"Aww, that’s sweet." Soonyoung coos, pushing at Seokmin’s shoulder until he’s flat on his back. In one quick movement, he shifts to straddle Seokmin’s waist, planting both hands above his shoulders and leaning in.

Seokmin waits for him to say, _‘Ready for round 4?’_ or _‘Care to join me in the shower?’_ But Soonyoung has a talent for defying expectations. Before Seokmin knows what’s happening, he’s got the muzzle of a gun pressed under his jaw, and Soonyoung’s whispering against his ear, “It’s a shame I’m going to have to kill you,” like a _promise_.

Seokmin may have forgotten who he was dealing with here. He’s blaming the mind-blowing sex.

"Not much for the afterglow, are you?" Seokmin says, stung. “After all we’ve been through—you’re going to shoot me?”

Soonyoung slides his finger onto the trigger, cocks it with a reverberating mechanical click that Seokmin will probably still hear after he's dead.  “I work for Choi Seungcheol. He’s not a forgiving person— _normally_. I doubt he’ll care how good a fuck you were.”

“He doesn’t _have_ to know though.” Seokmin says, darting an anxious look down at where Soonyoung’s finger rests on the trigger, “This can be our little secret.”

Soonyoung stares down at him, his eyes hard and bright. “I try not to lie to him, yanno—on account of him not being very forgiving. If he knew I had a chance to take care of you, that I slept with you instead—death would be a _mercy_.”

Seokmin frowns. The fact that Soonyoung hasn’t just shot him already is….hopeful.

“Hmm. Well—I guess you better shoot me then.” He taunts.

They both hold still for a moment, Soonyoung’s knees digging painfully into his hips, his gun shoved up against the pulse point in Seokmin’s neck. Seokmin can hear the fierce thudding of blood in his ears and he knows it’s going to be messy—his brains are going to splatter all over the headboard and up the wall, and it’s nobody’s fault but his own.

Then Soonyoung kicks into motion, untangling himself from Seokmin's body and scooting off to sit at the edge of the bed.

“Get out.”

That sounds like mercy, or close enough anyway.

Seokmin grins and levers himself up of the bed to fetch his clothes. When he finishes tying his shoe laces, he turns to look at the man slumped unhappily on his bed, scowling at the gun in his hand like _it’s_ let him down somehow.

“Not that I don’t appreciate your show of leniency here,” He begins tentatively—Soonyoung is still holding a gun after all “—but I _did_ come here for a reason before we got side-tracked. I’d like to know where my friend is.”

“I told you—I don’t know.” Soonyoung says evenly. “Seungcheol released him, paid him off even. I don’t know where he went.”

Seokmin's forehead scrunches up in confusion. “I thought you said your boss wasn’t very _forgiving_?”

Soonyoung shrugs, not looking up. “ _Normally_ —yes. Normally he isn’t very forgiving. Sometimes he makes exceptions to emphasize a point. I think he might have been taken with your friend’s show of loyalty to your crew. He wouldn’t give up any names even after we tortured him. Seungcheol has some weird soft spot for loyalty—even when someone uses it against him.”

Seokmin absorbs that piece of information, tapping his chin. “Interesting.”

“Annoying more like.” Soonyoung clarifies testily.

Seokmin laughs.

He’s got what he’s came for but it’s not useful information by any means, doesn’t get him any closer to finding Jihoon or the rest of the crew. If Soonyoung _is_ telling the truth however—and Seokmin doesn’t dare doubt it now—at least Jihoon is out of direct harm for the moment.

It gives him time.

“I guess I better be going.” He mumbles, beating a retreat.

“Yeah. Bye.” Soonyoung says, with blatantly feigned disinterest. He’s scratching idly at his stomach, not meeting Seokmin’s eyes.

Seokmin loiters in the doorway, shifting his weight awkwardly. Maybe he should just turn around and pretend he was never there, but he doesn't. He finds Soonyoung entirely lovely, his dark snarl of hair and the heavy blush on his cheeks, his kiss swollen mouth and lax limbs.

“I’ll call you.” He finds himself saying.

Soonyoung’s head snaps up. His eyes shine with anger. “No—you _won’t_.”

“Yes, I--” Seokmin replies, faltering at Soonyoung’s expression. He can think of all the reasons why a man might object to such an arrangement. None of those reasons seems to disturb him. If anything, he finds himself intrigued by the prospect of seeing Soonyoung again. “I want to see you again. This was fun.”

“No.” Soonyoung says again, his voice clear and firm. “If I see you again, I’m going to shoot you. There will be no hesitation.”

There's a shade in Soonyoung’s expression. Seokmin only needs a second to place it: fear. Of the  _holy shit, I may actually hesitate to shoot this guy next time_  variety.

That's when Seokmin starts to believe. He breaks into a wide smile.

Stepping over to the bed, he grabs Soonyoung’s face in both hands and kisses him, hard. Soonyoung makes a startled noise, but Seokmin doesn’t give him space to voice a protest, just cradles his clenching jaw and kisses and kisses his beautiful angry mouth. Partly it’s to shut him up, partly because he needs him to know they can have this.

Soonyoung still looks pissed when Seokmin finally releases him, face flushed with what is probably more indignation than arousal.

“ _Asshole_.” He grumbles, but there’s no heat behind it. “I’m going to shoot you next time—I meant it.”

Seokmin laughs and kisses his chin, his cheek. Soonyoung allows it, grudgingly, tilting very slightly into the press of Seokmin’s lips. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

* * *

 

Jihoon sleeps unsurprisingly little. He spends most of the night staring up at the water stained ceiling, wondering if the last 24 hours of his life were possibly just a figment of his imagination.

The Dior suit he dons the next morning feels real, though. As do the Bottega Veneta Calf Chet slip-ons.

When he’d first opened the boxes containing his new wardrobe, he was nothing but baffled by the contents. He didn’t understand how any one outfit could require twenty separate bits and pieces to make it complete. Then when he started hanging up the pieces in his wardrobe—he started paying attention.

He began to notice the shape of things, the way certain colours pair with one another. There was a science to it, he recognized. There were distinct patterns that could be followed, and Jihoon started to track them, to make lists in his head—of which pants call for a belt and which for suspenders, which waistcoats should be worn with or without a tie, which pocket squares couple with which jackets.

So for his first day of work he settles for a dove grey suit with a tie a shade darker, picks a steel tie clip over a gold, and then studying his reflection in the mirror, he slick his hair back instead of parting it to the side.

 _‘With pomade—no gel,’_ The hairdresser in the spa had specified.

When he heads out the door, he’s running a little early. But it’s always good to be standing, waiting, rather than rushing to his destination. He wants to make a good impression.

Seungcheol’s Rolex is a heavy weight around his wrist as he turns the key in the ignition—a grounding weight.

This is the future that Jihoon has always intended for himself, ever since he was eight years old, since that morning when his father packed his bags and took one final, peremptory glance around their house, the way people do when they leave a place with no intention of ever looking back.

 _He'll be back—don’t worry_ , Jihoon's mother used to say, when she was scraping together the rent for their rundown one-bedroom apartment, when the heat got cut off because there wasn't any money, when she started making weekly stops at the local food bank.

Jihoon spent his entire childhood watching his mother fade away until there was nothing left of her. He promised himself something better out of life—and it’s taken a few tries, a few very low moments and one literal crawl out of the gutter. But here he is, driving a Maserati Alfieri and working for the biggest mob boss in Asia.

He’s determined to do this right—prove himself as indispensable. Though as he steps out of the elevator at Seungcheol’s penthouse, he likens himself to an alien taking that first, tremulous step out of his crashed spaceship.

There’s only one set of doors on this floor—at the end of a short corridor with two security cameras fixed on them. He approaches them casually, checking his watch again—and okay, maybe he’s being too eager.

He’s a whole fucking _hour_ early. Seungcheol’s probably still asleep.

Maybe he’ll just hang out here in the corridor for an hour and….you know what. Fuck it.

Jihoon does the only thing he knows how—he takes the building anxiety, folds it up, makes the creases sharp and neat, and shoves it into that dimly lit corner of himself where he puts all the things he needs to forget. 

He lets his $10,000 suit feel like armour, and—he rings the doorbell.

“Oh hello,” Jihoon says, when a small white-haired man answers. Great. He’s got the wrong place. “Sorry. I thought this was...”

“Mr Choi is in the shower.” The man answers, with a flat smile. He steps back and holds the door open for him. “But he’s expecting you. Please, come in.

“Oh, okay. Uhm, thank you.” Jihoon says, stepping inside, noticing all at once the man’s crisp black suit and white gloves.

Of course, Seungcheol has a butler. Of course, he’s too rich to answer his own fucking door. He’s probably got an army of maids too—he’s probably never made his own bed or folded his laundry or washed the dishes. The man probably has someone to wipe his ass for him.

“I’m sorry I’m so early.” Jihoon smiles, folding and unfolding his arms. “It’s my first day. I wanted to make a good impression.”

The Butler smiles like it’s quite alright.

“Mr Choi has asked for you to make yourself comfortable, he will be with you shortly.”

Jihoon smiles and nods, unsure of the protocol, but bowing as the man bows.

Whilst the butler steps away to the kitchen to—do whatever it is Butler’s do—Jihoon pokes round the penthouse, fascinated.

He wanders into a large lounge area, living room, dining, and kitchen all rolled into one in the open-plan space. The lights come on without him doing anything, startling him. A quick glance around tells him he’s still alone, so he guesses it’s keyed to living signatures.

It’s all pretty extravagant—like something out of one of those snooty Interior design magazines that you browse through when you’re taking a shit and fantasizing about what you’d do if you ever won the lottery.

Some of furniture looks like a one-of-a-kind antique reproduction; couches with elaborate backs, the fancy type that gets hand-made in France or something, whilst other pieces are more minimalist and streamlined. Seungcheol might not be able to decide what time period he wants to live in—but there’s a colour scheme bringing all the pieces together. The soft furnishings are grey velvet and the wood is dark brown; the thick rugs spanning the floor are cream (Seriously. Only rich people can afford to keep them _that_ cream) and the throw pillows are a multitude of colours and patterns, not unlike the designs found in the paintings on display.

It’s, unsurprisingly, tastefully done, at least to Jihoon’s untrained eye.

Strolling along the wide corridor, Jihoon stops to study the paintings on display.

He recognises a few; a Cassatt on the left, one of Matisse' Blue Nudes hangs on the wall to his right, and a pretty stunning Monet ‘Sunrise’ in the middle.

On the wall ahead, where the corridor curves left, there's a drawing in a pressure sensor frame that Jihoon can't put a name to. It's a painting of two men sitting across from one another, engaged in a card game. Jihoon’s no art enthusiast, but he can appreciate the subtle beauty of the piece’ the colours are stark and somehow hopeful at the same time.

It’s clear Seungcheol appreciates art, _enjoys_ it—perhaps as an investment, or even a financial tactic –  _Behold my wealth, ye mighty, and despair._  Yet here is this special piece, on display with countless others in a quiet corridor in Seungcheol’s penthouse. All for himself, nothing for anyone else, and Jihoon catches himself thinking— _He must be awfully lonely._

Past the corner, the walls are bare. Jihoon goes forward and the corridor narrows until he passes through an archway bordered by plants and into a brightly lit room.

There are skylights along the ceiling, fitted with beautifully patterned glass that radiates colour down the walls. The air is a little more humid here—on account of the plants, and his footsteps echo noticeably as he walks through what appears to be a private greenhouse. Or _spa_ of sorts—he’s forced to amend, when he spots the large claw footed tub in the centre.

What the hell is this place?

It’s truly amazing what money can buy you. Your own personal sanctuary atop a high rise—

The sound of rushing water cuts so abruptly Jihoon realises he’d failed to notice it when he entered. He turns sharply at the sound of a quiet humming and _freezes_ when he realizes there’s a figure reflected behind a frosty glass partition to his left.

_Oh shit—is that--_

Suddenly, the glass door swings outwards, and Jihoon blushes as a very naked Seungcheol emerges from his shower.

Jihoon shifts his gaze helplessly down the landscape of Seungcheol’s wet chest—getting stuck for a bit on the tattoo of an Ace of Spades over his right pectoral. But there’s no stopping once he’s started, not with those broad delicious shoulders, that muscle-sprung abs plunging down to Seungcheol’s narrow waist and hips.

And that’s where it gets _really_ interesting….

“Oh my god!” Jihoon chokes as his eyes _drop_ lower.

Suddenly, he can pinpoint the exact source of Seungcheol’s healthy sense of self-importance. It’s right _there_ —between his _legs_.

 _God doesn’t make them like that anymore—_ his inner voice snickers, as he tries not to stare at _it_ frog-eyed.

Seungcheol makes a curious noise when he sees Jihoon, seemingly oblivious to his own nudity, then reaches for a towel and….

…..dries his fucking hair!

“Hello— _Mr Lee._ Welcome to my bathroom. Did you enjoy watching me shower?” Seungcheol says, all easy and relaxed and matter-of-fact like he’s not standing there with his massive cock on display.

Jihoon closes his mouth, not without difficulty.

He averts his eyes, briefly, just to make sure he can _still_ do it. When he looks back he’s sure to meet Seungcheol’s gaze, which he doesn’t think he’s done since Seungcheol emerged from the shower.

 _How many inches is that thing? —_ Jihoon wonders, dazed — _and how many more, if I were to —_

Nope. _No_. Don’t go there.

Seungcheol, Jihoon reminds himself, already has a massive ego. He does  _not_  need Jihoon to tell him that he’s got a massive cock. Seungcheol  _knows_  he’s got a massive cock. It’s  _his_  massive cock, for fuck’s sake.  _It’s attached to him._

“I—” Jihoon starts to say, then has to stop, cough, and start again. “I didn’t know this was a bathroom. My bathroom is like 5 by 5 meters big, okay. I wasn’t expecting to stumble upon your apartment sized bathroom, or you _showering_ , when I was just walking around trying to kill time. I had no indication that this was _your_ bathroom.” His voice has been gradually going up an octave every few words. He can hear it, but he can't do anything about it.

Seungcheol makes a _'hmm'_ noise in his throat, as if he isn't entirely convinced. “Tiles, water—soap.” He gestures, still naked and free. Freely— _swinging_. “That’s pretty much got bathroom written all over it.”

“There was no door!” Jihoon feels compelled to point out. His heart is beating so hard his throat hurts. “You should have a lockable door leading into your shower room at least!”

Seungcheol mouth twists. “I like an opened planned living space. I also didn’t expect guests to wander freely into my bathroom while I was considering the design aspects of my apartment.” he says.

Impossible to tell what that is, that tone in Seungcheol’s voice: maybe amusement, but just as likely disgust or offense or mockery.

“But maybe you’re right.” Seungcheol continues breezily, seemingly unoffended. “Maybe I should have a sign put up or something—or have the word _'Bathroom’_ plastered in mosaic tiles along the wall. What do you think?” he asks, his mood still indecipherable.

Jihoon hesitates, like he’s considering the options, but really he’s trying to work out if there’s any possible way he can have sex with Seungcheol right now without seeming like a vapid shallow size queen. 

 _Fucking fuck_ —he can’t believe he’s even considering it.

He just met this guy three days ago—nearly got murdered because of him and accepted his weird job offer just yesterday, and here he is already thinking about sucking his dick.

It’s not right.

Jihoon has principles for Christ’s sake.

He  _did_  have principles, Jihoon revises now. Seungcheol’s cock is like the Total Perspective Vortex of genitalia: his objections to begging Seungcheol for cock seem petty and ridiculous now that Jihoon’s seen just how much Seungcheol has to offer.

Jihoon opens his mouth to speak.

“A Mosaic would suit.” he says. Seungcheol did say Mosaic, didn’t he?

He must have, because Seungcheol just nods and turns towards the mirror. There’s humour in his eyes when he looks at Jihoon in the reflection, and perhaps there’s something a little knowing around the corners of his mouth, like maybe Jihoon’s not playing it as cool as he hopes he is.

As much as Jihoon’s enjoying the emergence of Seungcheol’s round pert ass to his field of view, he really should get the fuck out of here.

“I’ll wait outside.” He mumbles, trying—not very successfully—to look anywhere but at Seungcheol's naked body.

“No—stay.” Seungcheol’s command draws his short.

“W-why?” Jihoon chokes. He’s beginning to think the man had no sense of embarrassment.

“I like the ego boost.” Seungcheol says, grinning in the mirror.

Jihoon presses his mouth into a thin line, feels the heat flooding his face. “Oh—fuck you.”

Seungcheol's voice goes husky. “ _Yeah_ , I bet you’d like that.”

“You know what—" Jihoon swallows what he suspects is a less than witty retort, and turns to storm out.

“Alright, alright—I’ll put on a towel.” Seungcheol chuckles, reaching over to slip one off a railing.

Jihoon doesn’t wait to see what he’ll do with it—he can floss till his balls drop off, he’s not staying.

He makes it a few steps before suddenly Seungcheol is there—wrapping a hand around his wrist and pulling him around. 

Jihoon breath catches hard at the feel of Seungcheol’s fingers tight on his skin. He doesn’t try to pull away, though. He’s suddenly, absurdly hit by a wave of Deja-vu. Seungcheol’s unrelenting grip pulling him back to a moment when a John had yanked his arm so hard it had popped out of the socket.

God—he. No. He doesn’t want to think about that right now.

But instead of the sharp smack of pain he’s expecting, Seungcheol’s grip loosens to slide up his arm. He cups Jihoon by the elbow, turns him gently.

Jihoon lifts his gaze to look up at him, and finds Seungcheol watching him with eyes full of warm interest. Jihoon isn’t used to it. It makes his chest feel tight.

Nobody ever looks at him like that anymore; maybe they never did.

“Please stay Mon Petit Chou, I was just teasing,” Seungcheol whispers, finally releasing his hold on him and stepping back.

He smiles his smooth, silky  _trust me_  smile and pads back over to the mirror—his bottom half now safely tucked away under a towel wrapped around his waist.

“I’d like to go over a few things before we head to the office. Now’s a good a time as any,” He adds, grabbing a can of shaving cream set out on a cabinet.

Jihoon blows a frustrated breath through his nose but holds his position as Seungcheol spreads shaving foam over his cheeks, whips out a straight razor and starts to shave.

Jihoon waits for Seungcheol to start talking, but he doesn't. There is just an open-ended silence that Seungcheol can fill or not as he sees fit. Jihoon suspects it’s a way of exerting power over people—making them _wait_. It’s equally likely Seungcheol really does just like the ego boost.

Jihoon can’t find it in himself to get angry over that—he’s almost lulled into a pleasant sort of trance by the neat strokes of the razor, the elegant turn of Seungcheol’s wrist, the charmingly toneless sound of his humming.

Bit by bit, the left side of Seungcheol’s face appears, clean and bare. Jihoon would very much like to touch him there, on his squeaky-smooth cheek, but he refrains somehow.

“Bet you never need to do this.” Seungcheol speaks up then, drawing him out of his lull. He waves the razor in view, before tackling the stubble under his chin. “I bet you’re _smooth_ as a baby all over.”

“You’ll never know.” Jihoon drawls in response.

Seungcheol guffaws at him in the mirror, a grin sliding easily into place as he turns to look over his shoulder.

“You look good.” He appraises, looking over the outfit Jihoon composed that morning before looking back in the mirror. “We should buy you more suits.”

Uncomfortable, Jihoon circles the bathroom, feeling Seungcheol's eyes on him through the mirror. “I have like twenty new suits back at my place now. I barely have enough space to store them as it is.” He murmurs, reaching out to straighten a stack of towels. “Is that really what you want to talk to me about now?”

Seungcheol grins, then scrapes the razor deftly down the line of his throat. “I’m holding a poker tournament at the end of the month. It’s a high stakes game.” He pauses to flick cream off the blade. “You much of a player?”

Jihoon shakes his head. “My experience with card games is limited to Yu-gi-oh and Pokémon. At a stretch I can hold my own in a game of Go-fish, but that’s about it.”

Seungcheol smirks like Jihoon has said something funny. It’s condescending as hell, but it still makes Jihoon's cock twitch.

Seungcheol carries on shaving. “A lot of important people are going to be there; casino high rollers and celebrities, so security has to be _tight_.” More of his face emerges: his chin, the divot above his upper lip, the planes of his cheek. “It’s an invitation only event, but the invites come with a plus one which always poses a bit of problem. I don’t like to dictate who people bring along, but--”

“Practically anyone can be hanging off these guests’ arms.” Jihoon interjects with a nod. “I’ll do background checks on the invite list and cross reference the attendees against a database of law enforcement personnel, cause I’m guessing this tournament is just a front for whatever you and Namjoon were discussing yesterday.”

Carefully Seungcheol sets the razor down next to the sink, grabs a nearby towel and wipes away a small patch of lather left near his ear, all the while studying Jihoon closely.  

Jihoon has the sensation that Seungcheol can see right through him, that he  _knows_  him as no one else ever has, as terrifying and exhilarating as that is. 

“Look at me—I’m trying to hold your hand, but you’re already walking on your own.” Seungcheol says, with a genuine note of admiration.

Jihoon’s ears burn.

“Just reading between the lines.” He murmurs, avoiding Seungcheol’s gaze.

Silence descends as Seungcheol switches his towel for a bathrobe, splashes on some after shave and adjusts his hair. Then before Jihoon knows it, Seungcheol's standing so far inside his space that Jihoon can feel the heat from his body, the rush of his breath, the strong scent of his aftershave, and he fights down the sudden and annoying rise of arousal.

“I’ll introduce you to Mingyu today,” Seungcheol says, running a finger along the lapel of Jihoon's suit. “—my _old_ head of security. He’ll show you around the specifics of the job, but I should warn you—I haven’t told him you’ll be replacing him yet. He might not handle it too well.”

Jihoon blows out a steadying breath. “Well as long as he doesn’t reach for his gun—I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

“You got the time?” Seungcheol says, giving Jihoon a look, smolderingly flirtatious.

Jihoon pushes up the sleeves over his wrist, makes sure to flash Seungcheol’s stolen Rolex in his face. “It’s 8.35.”

Seungcheol seems strangely pleased about that. “Perfect. Plenty of time for _un petit dejouner._ Will you join me?” His voice is deep and rich and amused, all sex, and Jihoon swallows hard.

“Uh—Sure.” He manages to say, though he’s not sure _what_ he’s agreeing to.

It _sounds_ sexual.

But then again, Seungcheol could be talking about cleaning wax out of his ears in French and it would still sound sexual.

* * *

 

There really isn’t much for Wonwoo to do when Mingyu leaves for work.

There is the hugest wide-screen television dwarfing one wall in the living area, and an impressive collection of Blu-Ray’s—but Wonwoo’s never been a movie aficionado, and he does have a _whole_ day to kill.

He ends up tidying up the apartment—out of principle more than boredom. He’s crashing at Mingyu’s place and he feels like he should contribute somehow. Besides, his head’s clearer in an organized environment, and cleaning gives him the perfect opportunity to snoop through Mingyu’s things.

Coincidentally, his cleaning/snooping ends in the junk drawer of Mingyu’s vanity.

There’s the usual crap—dead batteries that should have been tossed, keys that probably no longer serve a function, a jumbo sized box of condoms…..that Wonwoo quickly brushes aside. There are old receipts and ticket stubs and loose change; pocket lint that has been relegated to drawer lint.

Nothing insightful at first glance, or even under inspection. There are no notes, no photographs, no letters. Looking through the pile, Wonwoo notices that there is nothing personal about any of it—it could be stuff in just about any other guy’s drawer.

The entire apartment is like that actually—neat and well-maintained and _anonymous_. According to the bills Wonwoo had found, Mingyu’s hasn't even bought the place. Though he can easily afford it, he is still living in a rental, month-to-month.

It’s like he’s in limbo, undecided what to do.

Wonwoo sighs and dumps everything back in the drawer, pushes the back in a little too forcefully—then hears the unmistakable echo of ripping tape.

He pauses, lips pursed thoughtfully.

Pulling the drawer out a little, he pushes it back in again—and is still met with the sound of tape coming loose. Carefully, he reaches inside to feel around—and his fingers brush against a plastic bag, taped to the roof of the vanity. He manages to pry it free with little effort and pulls out a small, black plastic bag.

The discovery makes Wonwoo's gut tighten sharply—his heart rate spikes.

Mingyu’s taken great care to hide this bag from sight for some reason, probably because it’s super personal or even _dangerous_ , and Wonwoo should just tape it back where he found it.

Curiosity wins out, and instead he finds himself untying the ends and dumping the contents out on the bed.

Inside are three items: A Rolex, a pack of playing cards and a poker chip.

He examines the poker chip first—rolling it between his fingers. It’s old school clay; multi-coloured and with no discernible value etched on its face. A prototype maybe? Who knows. Wonwoo dismisses it rather quickly to flick through the cards.

They too are an oddity—seeing as all 52 cards in the deck have been printed with the same image: the Jack of Spades. The paper is worn and rough in his fingers, and he realizes that the cards are handmade with ink and paint.

Weird.

Wonwoo has no fucking idea why any of these items are hidden. There’s nothing of value here—excluding whatever sentimental attachments Mingyu might have—nobody would think twice about pinching any of these.

Except the Rolex of course.

And it _is_ a Rolex—Wonwoo notes—not some cheap knock off. He can tell by the well-balanced weight of it—the lack of scuff marks around the face. He doesn’t know why Mingyu doesn’t wear it. It’s in perfectly good working condition and even has a message engraved on the back _—'Try harder.’_

Oh, right. _Well_. That is depressing.

Or motivating.

Depends how you see it.

Wonwoo’s leaning towards depressing—otherwise why would Mingyu have hidden it away?

* * *

 

Most people who have accidentally crossed Choi Seungcheol no better than to show their faces again. When Seungcheol grants you mercy—you take it and run; keep your mouth shut, or better yet, share your story with the next idiot who tries.

Understandably, Mingyu’s a little stunned when he arrives at work to find their captive from the bank heist just _chillin_ in Seungcheol’s private waiting room, thumbing through a magazine.

 _Jihoon_ —Wonwoo had said his name was. Though Mingyu is sure even Wonwoo would struggle to recognize his friend as he is now.

Jihoon’s hair was on the longer side of professional the last time they met—it’s slicked back now, neat and severe; it adds five years to the face Mingyu remembers, ten when coupled with the stern expression. He is paler than before—or maybe just _cleaner_? And he’s sleeker, as well, in that bespoke suit—flaws smoothed away, weak points concealed. A watertight disguise.

For a moment, Mingyu’s not sure this is the same person they had caught in the bank’s basement garage, rigging explosives. But in the room’s harsh light, he spots a faint blue tinge around the man’s left eye socket and a still healing split lip that suggests he is the same man they treated to Soonyoung’s brand of hospitality a few days ago.

What the fuck is he doing _here_ though?

Mingyu approaches the waiting area carefully, considers and discards a hundred opening statements, before finally his throat loosens enough to let him say: “You’re looking quite smart for a dead man.”

Jihoon glances at him, meeting his eyes for the briefest moment before turning back to his magazine.

_Son of a bitch._

Even as Mingyu moves until he's standing right over him, blocking out his light, the guy doesn’t spare him another glance. He just continues to flip the pages of his magazine without looking up.

Mingyu takes a moment to admire the man's fine acting skills. It’s hard to imagine the last time they met was under very different circumstances, but the man is just as stubborn as he remembers—surprisingly cocky for such a tiny little shit.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Mingyu asks, disbelieving.

Finally, Jihoon closes the magazine and looks over at Mingyu, eyebrow quirked in query. “I work here now.”

“Oh yeah? As what?” Mingyu says, his jaw clenched.

“I’m the new head of security.” Jihoon replies evenly.

Mingyu’s forehead puckers with annoyance. “What does that make me then?”

Jihoon breaks into sly smile. “Out of a job—I guess.”

Mingyu’s face goes hot with rage, his hands curling into fists, “You—” He starts, and finds that he’s got nothing to say.

Of course, Seungcheol was going to replace him after that cock-up at Headquarters. Of course, he was. Of course.

Just as Mingyu is drawing in breath to speak, the door to Seungcheol’s office swings open.

“Ah, it’s you,” Seungcheol observes. It takes Mingyu a moment to realize that he is speaking to  _him_ , not to Jihoon.  

“Welcome back. I take it you’ve met _Mr Lee_.” Seungcheol says, lingering with deliberate irony on the name, as though it is a private joke to which he does not intend to share the punchline. “He’s our new head of security.”

The disappointment is so thick Mingyu thinks he might choke on it. He can barely get out, “ _Am I fired?”_

Seungcheol levels him a rare fond look; under the circumstances it’s especially patronizing.  

“Don’t be _ridiculous_ Mingyu.” He says, glancing at Jihoon and trying not to grin. “You’ll always have a place here. You’ve been promoted actually.”

“Promoted to what?” Mingyu asks, keeping all the strain out of his voice.

Seungcheol waves him off easily. “We’ll iron out the details later. For _now_ —I need you to show Mr Lee around, show him the ins and outs of your job, daily tasks etc. Introduce him as your replacement—It will be better coming from you than if _I_ announce it.”

Mingyu recognizes that this is meant as an olive branch, but it feels like a slap in the face. Time was, Seungcheol would have pulled him aside into a conference the moment he made such a decision. Time was, Seungcheol trusted Mingyu’s opinion and judgment implicitly. Trusted him with _everything_.

“Boss. Do you really think it’s wise hiring a man who tried to rob--”

“ _Mingyu_ —,” Seungcheol interrupts, voice dangerously soft. He glances over his shoulder at Jihoon, and then back at Mingyu, his brows lacing. “Remember what we discussed yesterday? When I spoke to you on the phone? Remember what I said, about _not taking things personally_.”

Mingyu sucks in a shallow breath and looks awkwardly down at the floor. _This is business_ , he reminds himself. “Yes Boss.”

“Atta boy.” Seungcheol smirks, patting him on the cheek lightly. His cell phone rings a moment later and he fishes it out of his pocket, glances at the screen and then looks at Mingyu. “It’s Namjoon. You can take it from here?”

It’s barely a question, but Mingyu nods anyway.

Seungcheol rewards him with a friendly clap on the shoulder before turning to Jihoon, smiling his crooked white smile. “Enjoy your tour Mr Lee. You’ll be happy to know all the bathrooms in the complex are clearly marked.”

Mingyu has no idea what the hell _that_ means, but Jihoon’s carefully calibrated expression turns sour.

He actually _scowls_ at Seungcheol. “Ha—fucking—ha.”

Astonishingly, the corners of Seungcheol’s eyes crinkle in response, and the warmth looks disarmingly genuine. “Sorry—couldn’t resist.” He laughs, stepping backwards towards his office.  

Mingyu waits until the door has slammed shut behind him before turning to Jihoon.

“Are you sleeping with him?” He says, a foul edge to his voice.

“No.” Jihoon replies, irritated. “Are _you_?”

Mingyu gawks. “Ew— _no_.”

“Ew?” Jihoon repeats sceptically. “There’s nothing remotely _ew_ about him.”

Mingyu composes himself with difficulty. “He’s like an older brother to me. I’ve known him for most of my life. I just can’t figure out how _you’ve_ weaselled your way into his organization. Have you been working for him all along or something? Did you rat out your old crew to win favour? Cause let me tell you—"

In a flash, Jihoon’s up and out of his seat, grabbing Mingyu by the collar and shoving him down on to the couch. He pins him there with a knee held firmly against his thigh and an arm pressed painfully over his windpipe—a gesture that reminds Mingyu eerily of Seungcheol. Then Jihoon leans in, so close their noses nearly brush. His eyes are as hard and bright as agates, fixed on Mingyu.

“Listen— _pal_. I didn’t weasel my way into anything. And I would never rat out my old crew—so don’t ever suggest it again. Seungcheol offered me this job fair and square and I accepted. Granted, it was partly out of fear, and a smidgen of curiosity—but mostly because nobody’s ever taken my input seriously before he came along. Nobody has ever looked at me and seen potential before yesterday. So I accepted, because I want to make something of myself—cause I’m sick and tired of being overlooked. Now you can either show me the fuck around like he told you to, or I’m going to ruin my perfectly manicured nails kicking your ass.”

Mingyu has no idea how to respond to that.

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.” Mingyu stutters, impressed despite himself.

There’s a squeak of shoes against tile and they both turn their heads to find Soonyoung has materialized at their side and is watching them carefully, one eyebrow raised like a question mark. 

“Hey guys, I uh—” He stops short and blinks as if not quite certain he can trust what he sees.

Mingyu doesn’t blame him. He too would have calculated the odds of getting his ass handed to him by this… _funsized_ man—as approximately impossible to none.

“Am I _interrupting_?” Soonyoung finally says, gaze darting between the two of them. “I feel like I’m interrupting.”

Mingyu ignores him, trying to keep his expression impassive as Jihoon moves away and he stands to his feet.                

“Soonyoung, this is—”

“Mr Lee” Jihoon interjects, straightening his suit and assuming his most professional demeanour. “No need for introductions. I’ve already met this asshole.” He spits, gesturing at Soonyoung dismissively.

“Really?” Soonyoung frowns, quiet confusion. “I don’t think so. I’m sure I’d remember you meeting my asshole. _Wait_ —was there a third guy? And a double headed dildo? That’s beginning to ring a bell.”

Jihoon’s expression contorts with disgust. “What? No— _no_. How can you not remember me? It was just three days ago. You tied me to a chair and beat me up!”

Soonyoung looks down at the floor and back up. “Hmm. Doesn’t sound like something I’d be into if I’m being honest. I’m usually the one who gets tied up and pushed around. That’s kind of how I like it.”

Jihoon appears momentarily thrown. He eyeballs Soonyoung warily, then turns to Mingyu. “What’s wrong with this guy?”

Mingyu struggles briefly to explain the Wild card that is Kwon Soonyoung. “Soonyoung got a head injury the other day. And he’s kind of a pervert _everyday_. Also—you really do look different in that suit.”

Jihoon glances down at his suit, and if Mingyu’s not mistaken, there’s a small smile playing across his face. He’s pretty happy with his own transformation it seems. “Fair enough.”

“Well—I should get going. Boss is expecting me.” Soonyoung chirps, waving happily over his shoulder. “It was nice meeting you Mister Lee. Catch up later Gyu.”

Mingyu eyes his departing form suspiciously.

What’s he got to be so chipper about? And, is he—limping?

* * *

 

“There you are. Enjoy your day off?” Seungcheol asks. His expression is teasing but sharp as Soonyoung enters the office.

“Yeah. Just needed a relaxing day.” Soonyoung mostly manages to reign in his nonsensical nervousness to answer. He hopes to god that sounded convincing.

He's been psyching himself up the whole drive here, repeating the same mantra, _'What the boss doesn't know won't hurt him'._

“ _Right_.” Seungcheol snorts, walking around the table until they are facing each other. “Now that you’re back, and _relaxed_ —I need you to take over what Mingyu was working on. He’s busy inducting our new head of security, and Seungkwan’s still got cops sniffing around the bank. So I’ll leave it to _you_ to find that poser from the _‘Bureau of Sanitation’_ or whatever. You’re the only one who got a good look at him, and since he incapacitated you in such an _undignified_ manner—I imagine you’d want a little payback.”

Soonyoung's heart does a nervous thump against his ribs. He tamps down the urge to wipe his suddenly clammy palms on his pants.

“He—he could be anywhere by now. And he didn’t really get anything from us. Is catching him that necessary Boss?” he argues.

Seungcheol shoots him an unimpressed look. “Yes, it is.” He says, his voice hard and low. “We can’t have anyone think they can just _waltz_ into our headquarters and do whatever they want Soonie. We need to send a message—or else this guy will have no reason not to do it again. This facility is the heart of our operations—the fact that its security was compromised is unacceptable. How would you feel if this guy broke into your home and restrained you to the—”

Seungcheol cuts his speech short to stare at him for a moment, head tilted slightly to the side, like a curious dog. “Why are you blushing?”

Soonyoung hasn’t got an answer for that, at least not one that Seungcheol will appreciate. 

He does manage to choke out a pathetically unconvincing, “Woah, what? I’m not blushing. I’m… just so angry Boss. Yanno—that he got away. Grrr.” He even shakes his fist in the air for good measure.

Oh fuck—Seungcheol’s gonna see right through him. He just knows it.

“Good. _Use_ that anger.” Seungcheol grins, slapping him on the shoulder. He steps back behind his desk to reach for his phone, twirling his forefinger in an impatient little circle, a familiar invitation to get a fucking move on. “You’re dismissed.”

“Yes, boss.” Soonyoung nods, then on an afterthought, “Uhm, boss?”

Seungcheol’s gaze snaps to him, his expression pensive. He sets down his phone puts on an  _I'm listening_  expression. “Was there something else?”

“Yes, uhm—” Soonyoung begins to say against his better judgement, nervously brushing back a stray lock of hair that had come loose. “About that picture I sent—”

“Let’s—” Seungcheol interjects quickly, raising a finger to stop him mid-sentence. “Not go down that road again Soonyoung. I’d rather bypass the two or three weeks of awkwardness where you can't look me in the eye if it’s all the same to you. You had a head injury—head injuries make you do impulsive things. I’m willing to go with that excuse, you should to.”

“Yes, head injury Boss.” Soonyoung nods, fumbling towards the exit. “Thank you, Boss.”

* * *

 

Jun empties a pack of cards out on the table, all shiny paper and over-bright pictures, then gathers them up and shuffles absently.

“Look—,” Minghao begins, sliding into the rickety chair across from him, “I’m a half-way decent player. But I’m nowhere near good enough to pull any card cons, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Poker in itself is a con.” Jun explains, splitting the deck evenly. “It’s not about winning. It’s about the _illusion_ of winning.”

Minghao flicks his gaze between the cards and Jun. “I’m…not following.”

Jun smacks the cards on the table, edge down. "What have you got?"

Minghao's eyes widen slightly in bewilderment. “Huh?”

"In your _pockets_ ," Jun says slowly, like he's talking to a small child. 

“Oh—uhm—” Minghao digs in his pants pockets, pulls free a selection of crumpled bills and a scatter of coins, which roll on the table.

Jun reaches over and straightens it all out.

"Ok, you have twenty-seven dollars and seventeen cents, congratulations on your incredible wealth."

Minghao pulls a face at Jun's mockery, then watches him dig through his own pockets.

"I've got—wow, even less than you, and a pack of M&Ms."

“You’ve got credit cards.” Minghao says pointedly, eyeing the M&M’s, “And you’ve still got Jackson’s wallet.”

Jun shakes his head, “No, we’ll need those later. This is just for demonstration purposes.” He explains, then shoves all the money and candy together and splits it down the middle. "That's yours—” He says, pushing a small pile to Minghao side. He keeps the M&M’s in his own pile, “Don't fidget with it, and stop salivating over my M&M's."

Minghao pouts.

With a meagre bounty up for grabs, Jun deals the cards, swift and sure. Their first few hands are cautious as they feel each other out. As Minghao expected, Jun is good — _very_ good. Minghao manages to win a few hands through some strategic bluffing and some lucky cards, but his pile gradually dwindles.

They speak little; Jun doesn’t offer much in the way of observation, and Minghao is disinclined to break the silence. He’s aware that they’re both watching carefully, gleaning information.

“You play a safe game, dude. It’ll keep you in it, but it won’t help you win,” Jun says as he wins another round and pulls the small pile of money to himself.

As he deals the cards once more, his eyes flick up to Minghao’s. “Whaddya say we up the stakes?” He tosses everything he has into the middle of the table, an absent gesture, though Minghao suspects he's bluffing again. It's hard to tell, there's a serene sort of certainty under the hard edges of Jun's face. “Let’s make this the last hand—all or nothing.”

Minghao’s eyes dart to the packet of M&M’s he’d won in a previous hand; it’s all he has left. He examines his cards. He has three nines, the two of hearts and the four of spades. It’s a good hand.

“Alright.” He agrees, throwing the M&M’s into the prize pool. He drops the last two cards, the two and the four, and Jun deals him out two more. Two sixes: a club and a diamond.

That’s a full house.

Jun tosses one of his own cards down, picks up another. He slots it in neatly amid the others and looks up at Minghao, expressionless. “Let’s see what you’ve got, then.”

Minghao looks at him over his cards and smiles.

He lays his cards down neatly on the table, running a finger lightly over them. Without lifting his head, he looks up at Jun from under his brows. “Full house.”

Jun taps the back of his cards for a moment with his forefinger. He’s completely inscrutable, and Minghao has a flare of anger and impatience.

“C’mon.” He huffs.

With a lick to the corner of his mouth, Jun lays his cards down: a ten and four kings.

“Four of a kind.” His mouth curves up in a self-satisfied smile. “I win.”

Minghao’s nostrils flare.

The odds were... _unlikely_. But…..here they are.

“You’re not a bad player Kid,” Jun says as he tidies away the cards and puts the money away. His tone and the quirk of his lips make the words an insult. Looking up, he meets Minghao’s gaze in a clear challenge, that ever-present crackle of humour daring Minghao to respond.

Minghao resists the urge by moving over to lounge on the bed. The covers are still rumpled from their…earlier _exertions_ , and he smooths them out and takes a seat.

“Fine—eat all the M&M’s, see if I care,” He grumbles, “Bet you cheated anyway.”

Jun snorts, “Figures you’d be a sore loser. Thankfully—the con I have in mind doesn’t _actually_ involve us playing poker at all.”

Minghao flexes his jaw and meets Jun’s glance with a sharp one of his own. “Then why the fuck are we playing poker now?”

Jun tilts his head just enough to gives him a lopsided, lazy smile. “I was just looking for an excuse to show off my awesome poker skills and ruffle your feathers.”

“Asshole.” Minghao laughs, tossing a throw cushion at him. “Give me those M&M’s”

Jun dodges the cushion easily, but happily relinquishes the candy.

“The con does involve poker,” He explains, sliding into the space next to Minghao on the bed, “Just not the way you think.”

Minghao stuffs a pillow behind his back and open the M&M packet, settling in for the explanation.

“Every year—” Jun begins slowly, trying to flinch a sweet and getting his hand smacked away for his efforts, “Choi Seungcheol hosts a high stakes poker tournament in one of his casino’s. It’s a highly publicized but non-televised event that attracts some of the best players in the world—as well as a few high rollers and some less than savoury individuals. Anyone who’s anyone wants to be seen there, not necessarily to play, but even just an opportunity to spectate is a golden ticket for someone looking to build connections.”

“How high stakes are we talking?” Minghao asks curiously.

Jun flicks his poker chip in the air, “This year’s jackpot is 30 million dollars.”

Minghao gives a low whistle.

For a moment, gravity loses its grip on him, and he's dizzy with the possibilities. Then reality brings him crashing back down. “Wouldn’t a tournament of that calibre require a _buy-in_ fee? We’d need at least a couple of million to get anywhere near that tournament.”

“Usually—yes. But the prize pool of this particular tournament isn’t an accumulation of the player’s buy in fee’s. The Jackpot’s entirely donated by Choi Seungcheol himself. But you’re forgetting we’re not going to be playing--”

“What the fuck?” Minghao interjects. An M&M goes down the wrong way and he ends up choking for a full minute. “He donates the money? How’s that profitable for him?”

Jun rolls his eyes like Minghao’s worrying about the trivial details. “On the surface it _technically_ isn’t. _Yeah_ , it’s good publicity for him and attracts some of the ‘most beautiful’ and powerful people in the world. People who are likely to spend lavishly. But even the money he makes from charging for food, drink, accommodation and sponsorship fees doesn’t amount to much.”

Minghao’s eyebrows slant down in confusion, but Jun’s not finished talking it seems.

“Under the surface however, it’s very profitable. It’s an invitation only event, and those less than savoury people I mentioned earlier—they’re the _real_ reason he hosts the tournament.”

Minghao blinks. It takes him embarrassingly long to process what Jun might mean. “Criminals?”

Jun acknowledges that with a nod. “ _And_ other Mafia bosses, arms dealers—crooked politicians from all corners of the globe under one roof—connecting and finalising deals. It’s huge money changing hands and Choi Seungcheol gets a cut of every deal that happens. So you see, a 30-million-dollar jackpot is nothing to him. It’s walking around money in comparison.”

Minghao turns to give him a flat look. “And you want us to be there? In the middle of that?”

Jun brushes away his concern with a sweep of his hand. “The tournament is just for show. A nice distraction to cover up what’s really going on. And we’re going to use that distraction too—but for our _own_ gain. Security’s going to be too busy watching over the high profile guests and keeping law enforcement out to care about us.”

Which yes, that’s very likely, but…

“You said this was an invitation only event. How are we supposed to get an invite?” Minghao asks sensibly.

“We have one of three options. We’re not celebrities, so that rules out the first option. I’m a decent poker player when I don’t cheat and a terrific one when I do, but we can’t afford to cheat here, so option 2 is a _little_ shaky.”

Minghao frowns. “What’s option 3? And don’t you _dare_ say it’s to pose as some shady Chinese business men, because if that’s your plan—I’m walking out of this room right now.” He warns.

“No—don’t be stupid.” Jun says, looking exasperated. “They’ll see right through us before we step a foot through the door. Besides, we don’t have enough time to build the groundwork for _that_ kind of con. No, no—I aim to avoid Choi Seungcheol and his dodgy mates as much as possible. Option 3 _does_ require a little character deception and new identities, but it’s much simpler.”

He pauses in rolling a poker chip across his knuckles to pull out his phone, taps away on the screen until he pulls up a website then hands the phone over. It’s a job search engine, advertising vacancies in one of Seoul’s most prominent Hotel casino’s. It doesn’t specify which one, but Minghao can guess as to which easily enough.

He scrolls through the vacancies quickly: part time reception staff positions, zero hour contracts for room service staff, a card dealer vacancy that requires prior experience and a reference and a few casino floor staff jobs too.

Jun takes the phone off him once he reaches to the bottom of the page and scrolls back up, taps the screen pointedly.

“We’ll pose as casino staff.” Jun says breezily, as if it’s just that simple. “That will place us right in the thick of things. As long as one of us manages to land the card-dealer vacancy, the other can settle for another low paying job and we can still pull this off.”

It’s an opening Minghao has been waiting for.

“Pull _what_ off exactly?” He huffs impatiently. “How do we get the jackpot if we’re not even playing at the table?”

Jun stares up heavenward, as if Minghao should have telepathically gleaned the entire plan from his annoyingly vague references.

“We’re not aiming for the jackpot Minghao.” He says, looking back at him—a challenge in his eye. “We’re aiming for something _bigger_.” 

Seeing Minghao’s wary look, he sighs and reaches for his wallet. Flipping it open, he pulls out a creased piece of paper and unfolds it before handing it over.

Minghao looks it over carefully. He had no idea what possesses Jun to carry this around in his wallet, because it’s a picture— _of_ a picture: two men playing cards at a table.

“The card players.” Jun explains, pinching the edge of the creased paper. “It’s a painting, by Paul Cezanne. He was a French post-impressionist artist in the 1980’s, and this particular piece was owned by the Qatari Royal family before Choi Seungcheol won it from Sheikh Tamim in a private poker match in 2016.”

In all honesty, Minghao doesn't mean to let scepticism colour his voice when he says, “Art? Seriously? We’re _art_ thieves now?” he shakes his head sadly. “Why can’t we just go for the jackpot? 30 million dollars is a lot of money Jun.”

“This painting is worth ten times that.” Jun says in a deadpan.

Minghao eyeballs him.

“ _Fuck_.” He breathes, scrambling to get another good look at the picture again. It’s still just a picture— _of a picture:_ two men playing cards at a table, but it’s just so much more interesting now. 300 million dollars more interesting.

That kind of money is…..more money than he knows what to do with, but some rich foreign Prince probably didn’t even bat an eye wagering it off in a private poker match.

Fucking rich people.

“How? It’s just a _painting_.” Minghao says, numb with shock. “It doesn’t even look that good.”

Jun sighs melodramatically. "I despair of your artistic sense."

"Well, despair more quietly," Minghao says. He tilts his head so it's touching Jun’s shoulder. “Seriously—300 million for _this_?”

Jun doesn't say anything for a minute; he just flips his poker chip and stares off into the distance.

“I know quite a few people who would happily take it off our hands too. Maybe not for 300 million, but close enough.” He half-shrugs, a minute shift of one shoulder. “But it’s not the money I’m interested in—If I’m being entirely honest.”

Minghao doesn't bother to look surprised. “Right—right. _Revenge_.”

Jun sighs and shakes his head. “I’m not expecting it to play out like _that_. An eye from an eye just isn’t realistic considering the odds. I’ll settle for sending that bastard a message. He’s not as invincible as he likes to think, and losing his pride and joy is a pretty effective way of delivering that message, don’t ya think?”

Minghao calculates the odds that they could actually make something of this, that one of them won't end up stabbing the other in the back like the pathological opportunists they are, that they won't get each other killed out of stupidity, that they won't get caught, that Jun won’t wind up right back where he started in an 8-by-10 box.

Roughly, he puts their chances at sucky to none. But they’re better odds than he’d face alone.

He slumps a little further against Jun’s shoulder with a sigh. “So—I’ll be applying for a job for the first time in my life. That might be the most honest thing I’ll ever do.”

“Well—” Jun begins. He threads his fingers through Minghao's hair, presses a kiss to his forehead. “We’ll be applying with _forged_ documents, so not _really_ that honest.”

* * *

 

Jihoon’s pretty competent, Mingyu will give him that.

He’s got an obsessive eye for detail, and he handles all manner of weaponry in a way that suggests he may have dragged an assault rifle with him out of the womb. Mingyu doesn’t have to repeat himself twice as he gives him a low down of the security details, and anything of importance he shares gets written down in a little black book.

There are a few confused looks shared amongst the crew when Mingyu first introduces him as his replacement, but Jihoon neatly steps in when required, reveals little to nothing about himself in his speech, but still manages to exert authority over everyone when he sends them back to work.

He knows his shit, clearly—and despite his petite frame, Mingyu doesn’t think he’ll have any problems filling his shoes.

Of course, that still doesn’t explain how or _why_ he’s working for Seungcheol now, or how either of them can dismiss everything that’s happened in the last 72 hours, but then again—Mingyu reflects, he has his own elephant in the room, hiding back in his apartment.

The difference here is—Wonwoo doesn’t work for him now. Wonwoo hasn’t shifted allegiances; he’s still some biker thug, through and through. Jihoon on the other hand, with his neatly pressed suit and polished shoes, looks like he should never have been able to trade one uniform for another.

Something else must be going on. A hidden motive at play.

Mingyu for the life of him can’t figure out what it is, but watching the way Jihoon listens intently to everything he tells him, the way he carefully notes down the specifics in his book—determined to do this job _right_ , makes him think—maybe there isn’t? Maybe Jihoon really _does_ just want to do this job, and it isn't so hard to believe Jihoon could find someone to follow in Choi Seungcheol. Even Mingyu found Seungcheol compelling. _Once_.

“I can’t help but notice that Mr Choi doesn’t have his own security guard following him around.” Jihoon says, with a thoughtful air as they loop back through the complex. “Doesn’t he need one, or does he have one and the guy is just _that_ good I haven’t been able to spot him yet?”

Mingyu chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s been a while since Seungcheol’s had to deal with little annoyances like assassination attempts, but don’t let the high society living fool you—he can make short work of anyone his enemies can send after him.”

“Really?” Jihoon makes a brief noise of surprise, “Figured he’d have someone _else_ do it for him.”

Mingyu reins in a snort. “What? Cause he enjoys fine dining, appreciates art and never wears the same suit twice?” He smirks. “You don’t get to the top of the food chain by keeping your hands clean.”

Jihoon nods in apparent approval. 

When they reach the stairs at the end of the hall, Jihoon ducks past him when he holds the door open, then continues alongside him down the steps.

“I think I’ve covered everything you’ll need to know—for now.” Mingyu says. “If you need any help—don’t hesitate to ask.”

Jihoon puffs up indignantly. “I’m sure I’ll manage. It seems pretty straightforward.”

“Listen _Jihoon_ , I don’t know what you were doing before you landed this gig—other than unsuccessfully rob banks. But I’ve been working as Seungcheol’s head of security for years, okay. There’s no harm in deferring to a more experienced person’s advice now and then. Nobody’s going to think less of you for it.”

Jihoon stops walking, stands still where he is. Mingyu walks another two steps before noticing, then stops and turns sharply, brow creasing. "Something wrong?"

There must be. Jihoon is looking at him strangely.

In a calm, flat voice, Jihoon says, “How the hell did you know my name?”

Mingyu eyebrows rise. “Seungcheol just introduced us.”

“ _No_.” Jihoon intones, closing the distance slowly—gaze intent. “Seungcheol introduced me as _Mr Lee_. He doesn’t even know my first name— I refused to tell him.”

Mingyu's heart sinks. This guy’s way too observant. He’s going to have to be more careful around him.

“Well—” He says, and scrambles for a rationale that isn’t ‘ _Your friend Wonwoo let it slip. He’s hiding out in my place by the way, you should come over and say hi!_ ’ “That’s just how good I am at my job. I need to know everything about everyone.”

Mingyu prays his smile looks natural.

There is a terrifying seriousness to Jihoon's countenance now, and a faint furrow between his brows. Silence seems the only appropriate response, so Mingyu bites his tongue and waits.

The silence stretches out for another few seconds, echoing between them. At last Jihoon stands a little straighter and—still looking him directly in the eye—says, “Fair enough.”

He snaps his notebook shut and steps past Mingyu smoothly. “Thanks for the tour. If I need your _advice_ —I’ll let you know.”

Mingyu follows behind him at a more sedate pace, wondering with every step just how much he’s inadvertently given away.

* * *

 

Seungkwan starts the day by sitting on a pack of cigarettes.

Not that it wasn't going to be a terrible day anyway, but really, a  _whole bloody pack_ , and he just sticks them in his back pocket and then fucking  _sits_  on them. They're all either broken or smashed to shit when he realizes his mistake, and despite several attempts to fix them they remain that way, unsmokeable.

This leaves Seungkwan in something of a state. On the one hand, he is a smoker, and there is something unholy and reverent about having a wake-up smoke. It sets the tone for the whole day, and tastes better than any of the others do, and really he could take or leave the habit except for the first  _bloody_  cigarette of the morning. He needs it.

And if that isn’t enough—he trips when he’s climbing out of his car, head-butts the door and nearly takes his eye out on the sharp corner. It stings like a bitch.

If that isn’t foreshadowing for the day that lies ahead, he doesn’t know what is.

Surprisingly, the rest of the morning is uneventful. The workday's challenges begin on a mundane note; he supervises the repair work needed after the failed heist, brushes off a few questions from a loitering journalist looking for a scoop, and groans miserably at the pile of paperwork waiting for him at his desk, wondering why he offered to manage this portion of Seungcheol’s estate and not the Casino’s instead.

He’s sure managing a Casino would involve a lot less paperwork.

Handily, Officer Chwe turns up before he makes any real progress.

“Officer Chwe?” Seungkwan confirms, approaching the man standing at attention in the main lobby.

“That’s right.” Officer Chwe says.

There’s an irritated impatience to him that suggests he’d rather shoot Seungkwan than spend a day rooting through the archives. Irritated impatience is Seungkwan’s absolute weakness, and he does so enjoy spending these gravity-free moments watching as yet another cop tries to dig up dirt on Choi Seungcheol.

“I’m Mr Boo—the bank manager.” Seungkwan says, holding his hand out. He tries to look as meek and boring as any corporate hireling, to possibly exude harmlessness. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

The officer stares at his hand with a slit-eyed look, as if it might be a threat to national security, then hesitantly accepts it.

There's an art to a well-crafted handshake, the type that will make even the most reluctant, cynical bastard trust you. Officer Chwe's not immune to it, Seungkwan can tell; it's obvious in the shift of his posture, minute and yet so solidly  _there_.

“This way please.” Seungkwan says at last, ushering the way.

They make it as far as the back corridor before Officer Chwe feels duty-bound to disrupt the silence.

“Mr Choi said I would have the bank’s full cooperation.”

“And indeed you will.” Seungkwan smiles, stopping just outside the door to the conference room. “You have full access to our archives and we’ve set you up in this private room, so you won’t be disturbed during your investigation. And if you need anything else—just ask.” He explains, turning the handle and pushing the door open, ushering Officer Chwe through.

Officer Chwe doesn't quite seem to know what to make of that, but he lets the matter drop and steps inside. “Alright. Thank you.”

The conference room is plush—unnecessarily so, as far as Seungkwan is concerned.  But Seungcheol is the reigning emperor of extravagance, with pockets deep enough to foot the bill for what’s turned out to be a profitable, mostly over-the-table enterprise. If he wants to fork out for burnished mahogany and velvet cushioned chairs in a room they use--at most—three times a year, it’s not Seungkwan’s problem.

Officer Chwe immediately claims one of the chairs at the table and retrieves a laptop out of his bag.

Seungkwan watches him discreetly from the corner of his eye as he sets up, curious and not without a gleam of appreciation, then steps towards the tray of fresh coffee arranged on the side table.

“Coffee?” He offers.

“Sure. Yes. Thanks.” Officer Chwe says in a clipped monotone.

Seungkwan hands him his cup, allows their fingers to brush together, only for a moment.

"Your hands are shaking," Officer Chwe says, after a moment's silence, his expression unexpectedly sombre as he stares down at Seungkwan’s hand.

Seungkwan drops his gaze to ascertain that this is _true_. Nicotine withdrawal he suspects.

He flexes his fingers out quickly, “Oh, well—It’s been a hectic day. I haven’t had five minutes to catch a break. Nicotine withdrawal and all that. It’s an awful habit I _know_ —but every man’s allowed a few vices. Am I right?”

The corners of Vernon’s mouth tighten in disapproval—like he doesn’t have any vices _at all_. “And there’s a bruise on the left side of your head.”

“There is?” Seungkwan starts. He lifts a hand to check and flinches when he feels a prominent twinge. “Huh. Must have knocked my head against that car door harder than I thought.”

“Hmm.” Vernon’s mouth pinches together into a tighter line. Anger passes fleetingly across his face before his expression settles into concern. He touches his fingers to Seungkwan’s temple, to the spot where the car door collided with his skull, his touch light, questioning.

“What’s he like to work for?”

Seungkwan draws back in confusion. “Huh?”

“ _Mr_ _Choi_?” Officer Chwe says, voice slow but clear.

Seungkwan doesn’t know what _that_ has to do with anything, but as with most questions pertaining to the man—he quickly buries them under compliments, “Oh, he’s great. Just great. Fantastic leader. Nicest guy ever. Such a pleasure working for him, I love my job.”

He realizes that he's babbling, but he can't seem to stop himself. The urge to prattle only grows worse when Officer Chwe regards him suspiciously, with flat eyes.

“He seems like a hard man to please.” He smiles ruefully, “I hope he isn’t too—heavy handed with his employees.” He mumbles, staring down at his coffee cup.

“Oh—uh,” Seungkwan coughs, his hold on calm slipping a little.

He might have just given the impression that Seungcheol wails on him for doing a bad job—and now this cop is getting all….protective? Which is—hilarious and oddly sweet—well, for some cop he just met—but  _really_. 

Is Seungkwan giving off that kind of vibe? Seriously? Just because he chooses to forego he usual tie for the far more fashionable Western Bolo, he’s been labelled a pushover. Ha! Boo Seungkwan is a lot of things, but he’s no wilting wallflower.

He’s been working for Seungcheol about as long as Mingyu. He can take care of himself thank you very--

Oh wait. This mischaracterization could prove to be useful….

Seungkwan sighs dramatically. “I better get back to work—before Mr Choi yells at me again.” He says, as pleadingly as his trampled sense of dignity will allow.

He makes his way to the door, shoulders hunched. Glancing back briefly as he slips out the door, he finds Officer Chwe watching him with a pensive frown—face scrunched up like a pug dog's.

Seungkwan immediately feels guilty for making that comparison, even if it is in his own head.

* * *

 

They fit Jeonghan with an ankle monitor—just in case he gets any bright ideas and bolts. Which is a reasonable precaution he _supposes_ —seeing as he was planning that very thing the moment he didn’t have a gun trained on his person. He’s doesn’t put up a protest though, knowing full well he would only require a few tools and the right window of opportunity to remove it.

He’ll bide his time for now. And the Senior officer _was_ right—he _is_ in hiding, so to speak. He’ll take his chances here with Jisoo as his unofficial babysitter, then venture out into the unknown and in the sights of some hired goon’s scope.

When the Senior officer finally leaves, him and Jisoo remain, staring at each other across the kitchen thoughtfully. The apartment feels endlessly quiet, the way churches can sometimes, as if making a sound would be somehow irreverent. 

Eventually though, the silence begins to chisel away at his reserve. 

“So—a cop huh?” Jeonghan says, drumming his fingers on the table. “Can’t say I saw that coming.”

Jisoo raises his eyebrows “Didn’t you?” He’s leant against the fridge, his arms folded across his chest, fighting back a small smile. “You seemed pretty suspicious of me from the start. I figured I’d let the cat out of the bag with the hand-cuffs.”

Jeonghan shrugs. “I just thought you were a church choir conductor with _naughty_ tendencies.”

Jisoo shoots him a sidelong look that far too serious. “You’re not as charming as you think you are.”

“Whatever dude—” Jeonghan snorts. “I was charming enough for you to take off all my clothes and cuff me to a bed.”

“I was treating your—” Jisoo holds out a hand as if to stop Jeonghan from saying anything else. “No—I’m not going to get into this conversation with you. That way madness lies. Here—some light reading to keep you occupied.” He says, handing over a carefully assembled binder.

Jeonghan drags it closer and flips it open.

There’s a mission brief at the front, detailing a timeline of events. A date at the end of the month is circled in _red_ —some Poker tournament with a big question mark scrawled next to it. Clearly of some importance.

Jeonghan skips past the first few pages of writing—past lists of known accomplices and addresses to flick through the photographs paper-clipped to the back. They’re all in black and white; high resolution photographs shot with long distance cameras; pictures of shady suited men climbing in and out of cars, standing outside a casino smoking, exchanging briefcases and shaking hands with _other_ shady suited men.

One man appears more often than anyone else; tall, broad shouldered, dark hair and full lips. Not exactly the type Jeonghan usually goes for but _hey,_ he wouldn't kick him out of bed.

He's staring right at the camera in one photograph, like he knows it's there and patently doesn't give a fuck. It makes the skin prickle along the back of Jeonghan's neck.

“Who’s this then?” Jeonghan muses, tapping the image.

Jisoo splutters indignantly for a few seconds. “You know _who_ Choi Seungcheol is, but you don’t know what he looks like?”

“Really?” Jeonghan drawls, intrigued. He picks up another photograph, a close up at a flattering angle, though he suspects Choi Seungcheol doesn’t _have_ unflattering angles. “Wow. _Yanno_ —I always expected him to be some old don, sitting behind a desk and gesticulating passionately about _‘La famiglia’_ ”

“This isn’t the fucking Godfather.” Jisoo huffs. He crosses his arms and taps his shoe impatiently on the floor. “You might be thinking of his old man. Choi Senior was a crook too—but he’s been out of the picture for a long time. Junior’s built his empire up to what it is now, and regardless of what he looks like—he’s fucking dangerous.”

“I’ll say!” Jeonghan grins. “Just look at his ass in this suit. Positively _lethal_.”

Jisoo puffs out his cheeks and turns his head—like he’s not interested in the line of conversation in the slightest.

“You got any close ups of him—out of his suit?” Jeonghan asks, ignoring Jisoo’s play at ignorance. “Maybe in a pair of speedos or something.” He waggles his eyebrows, a taunt. “You do don’t you? You keep them in that locked room upstairs and whip em out when you’re feeling _naughty_.”

Jisoo has clearly heard enough. He bounces towards the table like a puppet on a string, and Jeonghan waits for the explosion.

“That’s enough.” He snaps, yanking the dossier out of Jeonghan grip and shoving the photographs back inside. “We’ll continue this tomorrow morning when you’re ready to take this _seriously_.” He huffs, then stalks out of the room angrily, leaving a cackling Jeonghan at the kitchen table.

* * *

 

Wonwoo quickly sets the wooden spoon down when he hears the keys jingle in the door. He makes it to the entryway in time to see Mingyu locking and bolting the door shut behind him.

When Mingyu turns and spots him, the look of stark relief which flashes across his face does something funny to Wonwoo’s stomach.

Neither of them say anything for a couple of minutes. Then Mingyu drops his keys in a dish on the entry table and steps away from the door, licking his lips.

“Hey. You’re—uh—still here.” He grins. He’s quick to continue when Wonwoo frowns, “I was worried you would have cut tail and run the minute I walked out the door is all. I’m glad you decided to—” He pauses to glance around the room—then his eyebrows shoot up. “Did you tidy up?”

Wonwoo shrugs, “It was kind of a mess. I felt useless just sitting around doing--”

He doesn’t even get to finish, because Mingyu’s sniffing the air now in a tragic way—no doubt intercepting the scent of tomatoes and oregano bubbling up from the kitchen.

“Is that—did you cook _too_?”

Wonwoo scratches the back of his neck anxiously.

 _Dammit_. He _knew_ cooking was a lame idea. “I just threw some things together. It’s no big deal. Jesus—don’t look at me like that.”

Mingyu’s _smiling_ at him, gaze heavy with fondness.

“Wow. When I left this morning, I was sure you were a thief, and now I come home to a—” He trails off, awkward about finishing the sentence.

Wonwoo frowns. “A house maid?”

Mingyu tilts his head and smiles. “I was going to say a 1940’s housewife—but maid’s much kinkier.”

“Fuck you.” Wonwoo grunts. There is no force in it, though. To Wonwoo's own surprise, he realises he isn't angry with Mingyu—he’s angry with himself.

What the fuck’s he doing? Playing house husband with one of Choi Seungcheol’s henchmen. _Jesus_.

If any of the guy’s saw him now they’d probably….they’d probably laugh actually.

 _Then_ shoot him. But there would be plentiful laughter involved.

He pushes past Mingyu and into the kitchen to slide the pan off the stove before it burns, scowling quietly all the while.

Mingyu catches him just as he turns around and pins him up against the edge of the counter with his body, caging him with his arms. He regards Wonwoo intently, his eyes big and dark and curious. His lips are softly parted and faintly wet-looking. The moment seems to bloom forever—so crowded with what might or might not happen, an overload of possibilities, that Wonwoo can barely stand it.

Then Mingyu shifts, reaches for Wonwoo's face.

Wonwoo turns his head before Mingyu can touch. “Gyu—don’t.” His heart slams once, painfully, in his chest.

Mingyu’s brow scrunches attractively. When he takes a step back, he ducks his head, looks away from Wonwoo but isn't quick enough to mask his hurt, his confusion.

“How’s your arm today?” He says, his voice dropping lower.

Wonwoo doesn't answer the question, but he doesn't look away, either.

The way Mingyu looks at him, the way he manages to look broad and menacing, yet sulk like a kicked puppy makes Wonwoo so angry—makes him want to slam his fists into Mingyu's face and then kiss him until they run out of air.

Wonwoo’s self-control reasserts itself before he can do any of that, and he pulls away. “It’s fine. Just stings a little.” he says in a gruff voice that he suspects fools absolutely no one.

“How was work?” He asks, just for _something_ to say.

Work obviously hasn’t gone _well_ , because Mingyu’s eyes dim.

He slumps against the counter, and then seems to deflate, the fight seeping out of him like air from a ruined tire, until he's somehow less than life-sized.

“Pretty shit.” He rubs his forehead, not meeting Wonwoo’s eyes. “I got demoted actually.”

“What? Really?—Shit dude, I’m sorry,” Wonwoo says, softer than he means to. It just escapes from his mouth like that.

Mingyu slowly undoes his tie. “Yeah—no thanks to your friend. Jihoon or ‘ _Mr Lee’_ , or whatever. He took my job.”

Wonwoo squints at him. He can’t be sure he heard that right. “Jihoon? What—what are you talking about?”

“I don’t know man. I don’t know how he did it—” Mingyu sucks in a deep breath through his teeth, and Wonwoo can tell he’s pissed. “But I showed up to work today and he’s Seungcheol’s new head of security. He’s all suited and booted and scarily committed to the roll. Almost kicked my ass actually—which is amazing considering how tiny he is.” he adds, sounding like he’s talking to himself.

He scrubs his mouth with his hand before turning back to Wonwoo, his face solemn. “How long have you known him for?”

“Jihoon?” Wonwoo blinks, thinking it through. “Two, _three_ years? He ran with Jeonghan longer before that. I was with another crew before that went tits up.”

Mingyu chews his lower lip, deep in thought. “You think it’s possible he was planted in your crew as an informant? I’ve known Seungcheol to plant informants in other gangs—he’s paranoid like that. Likes to have all the information at his fingertips, so maybe Jihoon was working for him before you guys established your crew?”

Wonwoo scoffs, shaking his head. “Only if Seungcheol was a pimp.”

The moment it's out there he wants to clamp his hand over his mouth.

Mingyu looks at him sharply and Wonwoo winces, chest tight, knowing he’s let another piece of information slip without meaning to. “Can you just forget I said that?”

The expression on Mingyu’s face clearly says that’s not going to happen. “Seriously? Mr Lee was a prostitute?”

“Will you stop calling him _Mr Lee_ —it sounds weird. And he didn’t have much of a choice at the time—alright. His situation was pretty rough. I think Jeonghan helped him get out of it—or that’s how they know each other anyway.”

Mingyu frowns, thinking that through.

“You can’t let him know that you know that, okay. He hates being reminded of it.” Wonwoo says after a moment.

Mingyu nods and rubs his lips with his fingers, his expression cloudy.

“None of this makes sense to me man.” He sighs, and then collects himself. “I’m tired. I’m going to go take a shower.”

* * *

 

Wonwoo leaves him to it.

He turns on the TV and lowers it to an unobtrusive volume, just enough noise to distract him from thinking too hard. Heading back into the kitchen he slices a up a baguette, aiming to pull of some kind of homemade garlic bread disaster.

He’s still rummaging around for the garlic mincer when he hears it: a quiet, but unmistakable knock on the front door.

Wonwoo hesitates; Mingyu’s still in the shower and he doesn’t know if it’s safe to answer.

He’s pretty sure even a social visit at half past bastard can’t be heralding anything good.

It could be anybody. It could be an _enemy_ —though that seems progressively more unlikely when he looks through the peep-hole and finds a man standing outside, hands in his pockets.

The view through the lens is slightly distorted, but it’s enough for Wonwoo to make out a few features: a tall, broad, dark slicked back hair specimen wrapped up in a well fitted suit. He appears to be alone, and unarmed.

Slowly, Wonwoo unbolts the door and removes the safety chain reasoning that—well—a hitman _wouldn’t_ have knocked.

“Uhm—hi?” He begins, opening the door partway, and now other details about the man become clear: the crisp shirt cuffs, the clean line of his jaw, the quiet confidence in the set of his shoulders.

“Hello there.” The man says. His eyes are as sharp as the rest of him, dark and bright. Magnetic as they trail up and down Wonwoo’s frame pointedly. “You’re not Mingyu.”

“No—I’m uh—” He doesn’t know if he should be answering that.

The first though that occurs to him is _‘Just great—Mingyu has a scaldingly hot boyfriend and Wonwoo was just his bit on the side’_ , the second thought he has _is ‘Mingyu must bottom too, because there’s no way in hell this guy bends over to anyone’_ and the third thought is _‘Is it wrong that I would totally be okay with this night ending in a threesome?’._

The man smirks at him, like he’d said all that out loud. For a moment, fantasy and reality collide--then bounce of each other and spin in opposite directions when Wonwoo realises the man’s just genuinely amused. _Amused_ because Wonwoo’s just standing there— _staring_.

Belatedly Wonwoo realizes that his cheeks have gone hot, and he might actually be blushing, and, wonderful, now he can't look the man in the eye either. Fuck.

“Mingyu’s just jumped into the shower.” He blurts out too quickly, holding the door open against his better judgement. “Are you a friend from work?”

The man strolls in, a smile playing across his face. “Something like that, yeah.”

He stops just inside the door, and gives Wonwoo the once-over, trying to place him. “Are you his boyfriend?” The man asks in return, which catapults Wonwoo’s _first_ thought right out the window.

Wonwoo tips his head from side to side, clears his throat and manages to say, “Something like that.”

The man’s lips purse thoughtfully, but he nods and steps over to the couch, reclining like a king in his throne, arm slung across the back.

He seems made of confidence, wearing his expensive British tailoring as naturally as skin. Wonwoo is suddenly conscious of his own clothes; jeans torn around the knees, bandages frayed because he keeps fidgeting with them, his shirt messily untucking itself from the waistband. He has that kind of body. Clothes wear him, not the other way around.

Not that any of these are the observations he's _supposed_ to be making. 

He’s supposed to calling Mingyu, instead of just standing there watching the way the fabric of the man pants stretches over his thighs as he leans back into his seat.

Wonwoo clenches his hands at his sides, his palms sticky. “I’ll, uh, go get—"

“Mingyu never mentioned having anyone.” The man talks over him easily, like he does it all the time to other people. “How long have you been together?”

“Not that long. A few weeks.” Wonwoo murmurs, deciding the truth will sound less convincing than a lie.

The man’s gaze sears down his body, stopping at where Wonwoo’s fidgeting with the bandages over his arm.

“What happened to your arm?” He says, his expression so carefully controlled it's both terrifying and unbearably hot.

Wonwoo stops fidgeting. He shrugs, awkwardly, “Skidded and fell off my bike.”

“ _Bike_.” The man echoes. His eyes narrow imperceptibly for the briefest of moments, like the idea has just occurred to him as something interesting. “Huh.”

“I’ll go fetch him.” Wonwoo mumbles, sweat starting to bead on his upper lip. He turns away. “Who should I say’s waiting?”

“Choi Seungcheol.”

It comes out so quietly that for a moment Wonwoo's not sure what he's heard, and then fear settles into the pit of his stomach like a cold, hard stone.

Oh fuck.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Sorry there was a delay between updates. I feel like this is something I regularly apologize for, but it's my own fault for having so many open fics. I hope the size of the update makes up for it somewhat!  
> 2) Yeah...I know this chapter was just shameless Seungcheol appreciation. But I love him.  
> 3) Seriously though. Rich people bathrooms. I saw a post on tumblr about it and I thought....what if Jihoon walked into Seungcheol's bathroom by accident :D  
> 4) Again I feel the plot is achingly slow, but it's the different POV slowing it down.  
> 5) Hope you enjoyed the update! Feedback always appreciated!


	9. Don't fear the reaper

Mingyu is halfway through the second chorus of ‘Bad Romance’ when the shower curtain is yanked aside.

“Get out of the shower _now_ ,” Wonwoo says, just visible through drifts of steam. 

If Mingyu’s not mistaken, and he rarely is in these situations, there’s a hungry look of desire in his eyes.

“Had a change of heart?” Mingyu answers, sweeping his hands over his face to dash the water back from his eyes. “Knew you couldn’t resist me.”

Wonwoo’s eyebrows leap. “What?”

Mingyu smirks, then moves aside, making room for Wonwoo in the bathtub. “Water’s nice—if you wanna _join me_.”

Wonwoo gives him a withering look. 

It’s very possible Mingyu _was_ mistaken, because instead of stripping out of his clothes and stepping in, Wonwoo reaches into the shower, shuts the water off and says in a hushed whisper, “Your boss is here.”

Mingyu almost chokes on nothing.

“That’s not even funny Wonwoo.” He says, half-laughing.

Wonwoo’s face has a distinctly murderous cast to it.  “Do I _look_ like I’m laughing?”

“No,” Mingyu squints at him, “But how do you know it’s him?”

“Cause he _introduced_ himself.” Wonwoo says pointedly, rubbing his palms down his trouser legs anxiously.

“That doesn’t make sense. The boss hardly _ever_ visits.” Mingyu says, mostly to himself. He still isn't sure this is actually happening and not some sort of horribly unfunny joke. 

“Well he’s here now. And he asked me how long we’ve known each other, and what happened to my arm—like he knew, like he _fucking knew_.” Wonwoo’s talking faster now, his gaze slipping off Mingyu’s face and scanning the room. “Oh god—why did I come here? Why didn’t I leave town?” He asks. He’s not talking to Mingyu at all anymore.

Mingyu grips him by the shoulders to anchor him, looks him right in the eye—“Wonwoo, I need you to calm down, okay. Tell me what he looks like.”

Wonwoo takes a long steadying breath, seemingly regaining some of his composure.

“He’s uh—about my height, but broader in the shoulders. Well dressed, dark hair, doe eyes—equal parts smoking hot and terrifying.” He says carefully, and Mingyu's brain comes to a noisy and untidy halt.

Oh, shit.

 _Yeah_ —that’s Seungcheol alright.

Mingyu half-falls out of the tub with how fast he’s climbing out. It’s all he can do to grab a towel and mop himself off as he drips his way across the tiles and into the hallway, crossing over into the bedroom to grab a pair of sweats.

“Stay in the bedroom,” He says, pulling the sweats up and over his hips. “Don’t come out till I get you—regardless of what you might hear.”

“He’s already _seen_ me.” Wonwoo bites out, jaw clenched so tightly Mingyu is almost surprised he managed to get the words out.

“Just stay.” Mingyu hisses, pulling the bedroom door shut behind him.

Seungcheol is indeed waiting in the living room, reclining on the sofa, and Mingyu thinks he's braced himself for it, but, no, seeing the man sitting there in the actual flesh still manages to come as a shock.

There’s an apology on the tip of his tongue, but he’s immediately distracted by a nagging sense of wrongness in the way Seungcheol is staring at him.

There is nothing he can pin down, nothing he can point to as concrete evidence of something amiss. On the surface, Seungcheol is as perfectly composed as he always is, from the carefully positioned full Windsor to the unfastened button of his waistcoat. But there’s something  _off_  in his steady dark gaze, in the familiar smug tilt of his lips—some nearly imperceptible quirk skittering along the edges of Mingyu’s awareness.

Making conversation under adverse conditions is nothing new to Mingyu, but here, _now_ , he hardly knows where to begin.

He stops just short of the rug and scrubs the towel over his head and face, well aware that what he’s doing could probably qualify as gaping but unable to close his mouth.

“Uhm—Hi Boss. I wasn’t expecting you. Is something up?” He inquires, careful to keep his voice level as he closes the distance between them to take a seat on the couch.

Seungcheol narrows his eyes a little, making Mingyu feel pinned by his gaze.

“Just thought we could have a little chat. I would have rung ahead if I’d known you had company, but if I had, I suspect I wouldn’t have met your little _friend_.” He drawls, primly straightening his cuffs. “Not gonna lie Gyu—I’m a little disappointed you kept that from me.”

“It’s not—it’s not what you—” Mingyu tries to speak, but his throat has seized on whatever world of garbled denial he was going to pull out.

The hint of a smirk flickers across Seungcheol’s sharp features a moment before he punches Mingyu in the arm. “You sneaky shit........…Why didn’t you _tell_ me you had a boyfriend?”

Mingyu’s already holding an arm over his face to take the brunt of the beat down Seungcheol’s about to deliver, when he registers what he’s just said.

Startled, he takes a second to reorient himself, “W-what?”

Seungcheol leans in, his voice dropping low, “Yanno, this whole time I was worried I was keeping you too busy with work to find someone, but I’m so relieved. Look at you— _shacking up,_ and he’s not bad on the eyes either.”

Mingyu stares at him in stunned silence for a moment, then breathes out a sigh of relief.

So Seungcheol doesn’t think Mingyu’s betrayed him—just that he has exquisite taste in companionship.

Phew.

It isn’t the conversation Mingyu ever _thought_ they’d be having, but what the hell, he’s prattled through far worse. A lot of what keeps him from shying away is the sincerity of Seungcheol’s response, how genuinely happy he appears to be that Mingyu’s ‘found someone’. 

“I wouldn’t say we’re shacking up exactly,” Mingyu babbles awkwardly. His face feels hot. “He’s not my boyfriend either, we’re just--”

“Sure, sure—” Seungcheol interjects, reaching over to ruffle Mingyu’s hair in a manner he probably should have outgrown ten years ago, but still relishes. “But I can see it happening—in time. He’s your type.”

Mingyu ducks his head, smiling despite himself.

“Now, to get down to business,” Seungcheol says, clapping his hands together. He sits back, looking satisfied. “As you know—the tournament at the end of the month is big business for me. For _us_. And while previously hosting it served as a good distraction from the main event, I always knew that eventually someone would get wise as to what exactly we’re doing.”

Mingyu nods, curt, like a puppet on a string. “That’s why you hired Mr Lee. Additional security.”

Seungcheol tips his head from side to side, “Hmm, yes and _no_. I had many reasons to hire Mr Lee, but I didn’t actually have him in mind when I planned this. Finding him was more of a happy coincidence. He’ll still be overseeing the security detail leading up the tournament, but you—” He absently pats Mingyu on the knee. “You’re needed for something else…..”

* * *

When Mingyu pushes the door of the bedroom open, Wonwoo looks up, relief blossoming on his face.

“He’s gone.”

Wonwoo blinks at him in shock. “What? Just like that? I was sure we’d be dead.” He says, tossing the something he was holding in his hand down on the bed.

It’s Mingyu’s spare gun, that one he _usually_ keeps taped beneath the chest of drawers. Mingyu’s not surprised Wonwoo found it, but he _is_ surprised that Wonwoo was preparing himself for an 11th hour rescue of sorts. It’s kind of sweet.

“He didn’t suspect anything—he just came to talk about work. I think he thinks you’re my boyfriend. No—in fact, I _know_ he thinks you’re my boyfriend, cause he kept going on about how happy he was I found someone, even suggested I bring you over for _dinner_ sometime.” Mingyu says, slightly dazed.

Wonwoo’s silent for a second. Then he says, “Is that like a euphemism for a threesome or something?”

“W-what?” Mingyu gasps.

He's forgotten how to make facial expressions, so he settles for swallowing something that wants to be either hysterical laughter or a protest of epic proportions. “No, no. He’s—no. Cheol’s like family to me, man. He’s like an older brother. I would never—”

“A _hot_ older brother.” Wonwoo blurts out in a moment of inappropriately-timed honesty.

Mingyu isn't sure what shows on his face, but it makes Wonwoo snort not a second later.

“Sorry, sorry.” He says, running a hand over his face. He takes a deep, frustrated breath, lets his head hang for a second, then squares his shoulders and looks up. “My logic tends to go a little skewed during life and death situations. Can we just pretend I didn’t say that? That was kind of embarrassing.”

There are at least five outraged replies Mingyu could make to this. All of them refuse to leave his mouth because he’s too busy imagining what that would be like: a threesome with Wonwoo and Seungcheol.

 _No. No. Not thinking about it_. _Don’t even go there_ —he yells at himself internally.

Mingyu ignores the extremely unhelpful flashcards his imagination keeps throwing up to grab a T-shirt from the drawer.

“You sure he doesn’t suspect anything?” Wonwoo asks him as he’s pulling it over his head.

Mingyu shrugs, yanking the hem down, “Obviously not. I mean—the footage we have of you leaving the bank isn’t from the most practical angle, so it would be hard to draw comparisons face to face. Besides, I was the only one who _really_ got a good look at you, and I _may_ have been a little deliberately misleading in my description.”

Wonwoo looks up, meets his eyes.

“ _Deliberately misleading_?” He sounds amused, but there’s an edge to it. “Why?”

Mingyu can only shrug again. He’s too tired, not in the mood to pick apart the riddles of his own psyche. “I dunno. It seemed like the right thing to do.”

Wonwoo gives him a lingering, searching look before the slight tension around his shoulders vanishes, and he says, “Well—I guess this means I’ll be getting out of your hair.”

Mingyu tenses up so intensely it actually surprises him. “Woah—what?”

Wonwoo exhales through his nose, turning his head to look outside the window. “I should leave.”

It’s the last thing Mingyu expected him to say. He stares at him, surprise turning his mind blank. On the wall behind him, an old clock is ticking the time away, loud in the absence of their voices.

“You don’t _have_ to go. You can stay—if you--” He stops talking because he's making a mess of it. And because he hasn't actually worked out what he actually means to say yet.

Wonwoo glances over at him, brow furrowed, “And why would I do that? You said it yourself, the footage they have of me isn’t useful—I’m not exactly in danger anymore, so why would I hang around here?”

And oh, yes, that cuts just as deep as Mingyu thought it might. _‘And why is that?’_ —a voice in the back of his head sounds.

Mingyu ignores his subconscious to ask, “Where you gonna go?”

“Back to my crew.” Wonwoo says decisively. He’s frowning now, clearly puzzled by Mingyu’s reaction. Something changes in his expression, and he turns to face Mingyu fully, eyes narrowed. “What were you expecting? That I’d hang around here, waiting for you to get back from work. Maybe have dinner ready when you come through the door, ask you how your day has been then blow you under the table?”

It’s so close to what Mingyu had been picturing in his head, he nearly blurts out ‘ _Yes’_.

“You know what, you’re right.” he says finally. He sticks a hand in his pocket, resisting the urge to cross his arms over his chest. Too obvious; too defensive. “You should go. Take care of yourself—stay out of trouble. You need money?” He adds, more than a little bit awkward as he moves over to the dresser to fetch his wallet.

“I don’t need money.” Wonwoo says tightly.

“You’ll need something to get you wherever you’re going safely.” Mingyu says, rifling through the bills then deciding, _fuck it_ —pulls out the whole wad of cash, holds it out for Wonwoo to take.

Wonwoo takes it, riffles through it with his thumb. Then he throws it at Mingyu, aiming for his head.

“I don’t want your money.” He grits out.

Mingyu is angry, suddenly. It boils up inside him, white-hot seething resentment. “Fine. But at least take this—” He grunts, stepping over to the dresser.

He yanks out the bottom drawer all the way, shoves his hand inside the gap and feels around for the plastic bag he keeps taped to the back. It’s still there, although looser than he remembers—but when he looks inside, everything’s accounted for.

He fishes out the poker chip and hold it out in his palm, waits for Wonwoo to take it.

Wonwoo stares at him blankly, uncomprehending – and then his face hardens, lips thinning. “You think I’m stupid enough to cash that in at Choi Casino’s?”

Mingyu resist the urge to roll his eyes, “It’s not a regular chip, dumbass, it’s a lifeline. It will keep you safe. Keep it on you, and if you run into trouble of the _Choi Seungcheol_ variety, hand it over. You’ll be off the hook.”

Wonwoo’s face is a mask of genuine confusion, but he accepts the poker chip with a jerky nod, “Alright.”

Mingyu expects him to pull himself together and leave. Instead, he turns to go, but hesitates, right heel lifted ever so slightly off the ground – and then he shifts back, resettling.

He seems to be chewing something over.

“Thanks, by the way—for your help.” He murmurs. He puts his hand on Mingyu’s shoulder, a light touch that's the most Mingyu’s had from him all day. Mingyu tries not to let it show how much he's basking in the contact, the brief muffled warmth of Wonwoo's hand through his clothes. “Thanks for everything.”

“It’s nothing.” Mingyu says, shrugging his hand off and moving past him towards the door. 

It’s flippant, he knows that, but there’s no sense dragging this out. The longer he stands there, looking at Wonwoo, earnest and uncomfortable, the more he wants to pull him into bed, fuck his brains out. Wonwoo would humour him, probably, for a minute or two. But he won’t stay. He was never planning to stay.

“I’m gonna finish my shower. You’ll see yourself out, yeah?” Mingyu continues, not waiting for an answer.

Crossing the corridor, he steps into the bathroom and closes the door. He starts the water, then stands there with his hands on his hips, listening as Wonwoo’s footsteps shuffle outside for a bit.

When he hears the front door click shut, he breathes a heavy sigh.

* * *

When Wonwoo shambles into the crew’s contingency safe house outside of the city—which tends to double as an office considering how much traffic it gets amongst the five of them—he makes it three steps before he finds himself pinned to the wall with an arm across his throat and what feels very much like the muzzle of Seokmin’s favourite SIG shoved into his gut.

“Seok—min.” He chokes out.

“Wonu?” Seokmin pulls back far enough to look at him, and the pressure eases on Wonwoo’s throat, just enough to allow him to talk. The gun stays where it is. “Jesus—where the fuck have you been? Where is everybody?”

Wonwoo shoves him off, massaging his throat. “I don’t know.” He says, gasping for air. He takes a few moments to even his breathing before continuing, “I’ve been laying low since the heist went tits up. I only came here when I figured the coast was clear.”

“And nearly got yourself shot because you didn’t use the _signal_.” Seokmin says, his eyes glinting with good humour that dims a little when he gets a good look at Wonwoo. His gaze lingers on the barely noticeable discoloration around Wonwoo's left eye, but before he can comment on that, he catches sight of the bandage peeking out from under Wonwoo’s jacket. “ _Jesus_. What happened to you?”

“Just gimme a minute.” Wonwoo sighs.

Seokmin stares at him quietly for a moment before nodding and stepping away. He doesn’t put away his gun.

There’s a little kitchenette in the corner and a door on which someone has hung a battered cardboard sign which says, in looping, delicate script, 'please knock before entering.' Wonwoo goes in and shuts the door behind him. There’s no lock.

He rinses his hands in ice-cold water and presses them to his burning face, letting himself panic for three long breaths, and then he pushes it down and stares unseeingly into the mirror. He looks horrible, his skin is sallow and there are bags under his eyes like bruises.

He’d spent the majority of bus ride here thinking how saying goodbye to Mingyu could have gone better. It could have gone a _lot_ better actually, because what happened back there was a fucking mess. A horribly domestic mess, Wonwoo thinks with sudden spike of nausea.

He should have been more grateful and less judging, less _petty_ —but when faced with more of Mingyu’s unexpected generosity he couldn’t help but be on the defensive. And splitting up was the smart thing to do, the obvious choice. Apart from everything else, why would he volunteer to spend any more time with Mingyu than he had to?

It isn't that Mingyu was bad company. It’s that it was  _a bad idea_. Almost as bad as going to him for help in the first place, which— _yeah_ , he’s still in two minds about why the fuck he did that.

But that’s it. It’s over, it’s done, and if all goes well, he’ll probably never have to see Mingyu again. Although that thought is so suddenly unpleasant, he has to push it to the back of his mind.

He’s been in the bathroom for five minutes now, starting to be too long. He flushes the toilet and washes his hands again, stares at himself hard in the mirror, and leaves.

Seokmin’s standing by the window, twitching the curtains open to peer down at the alley below. Looking around the room Wonwoo finds a blanket in the cabinet, two pillows, a toothbrush and toothpaste, and a few spare changes of clothing. 

“Have you been sleeping here?”

Seokmin shrugs, “Didn’t think it was a good idea to head home until I figured out what happened with the rest of you guys.”

Wonwoo nods agreeably, good call.

He shrugs out of his jacket and drapes is over the back of a chair before sitting on the couch.

“So you haven’t heard from Hannie yet?” He asks, leaning back against the cushions.

“Nope. Radio silence since we all split up.” Seokmin sighs. He’s moved to sit squatting with his back against the far wall, the gun held loosely in one hand. He picks at his lower lip absently before speaking. “Why’d you bail on us Wonu? What happened inside the bank? One minute we were clear to go and then you just— _walk out.”_

“One of the security guards recognised me—” Wonwoo says, lifting a hand to bite his nails, before thinking better of it. “I tried to warn Hannie to abort, but then I heard shooting from outside and I figured they had no choice but to go ahead with it anyway. I went to the warehouse like we planned, but someone had already beaten me to it, left us a little _explosive gift_.”

“How’d the guard recognise you?” Seokmin asks, tilting his head a little.

As far as Wonwoo can tell, there is nothing but idle curiosity in the question, but he can't be certain there isn’t something sharper and more dangerous, something that only masquerades as idle curiosity. He's never been very good at reading people, and Seokmin, a con-man in his own right, is a master of masks.

“It’s a long story.” He says, because hedging seems like the only safe thing to do.

“Good—” Seokmin taps his fingers against his gun, eyes on the door. “Cause I’d say we have some time to kill, and _I_ want answers.”

For a moment, Wonwoo thinks he’s generalising. Then he notices the particular flavour of Seokmin’s gaze—the suspicion, the tightness. He feels a sinking sensation.

“You don’t think I had anything to do with this—do you?” He asks, his nostrils flaring with affront.

Seokmin cranes his neck enough to look him up and down. “I dunno Wonu. The job seemed like a cake walk, everyone was in position, then suddenly you cut and run. Excuse me if I find something fishy about that.”

Wonwoo is abruptly furious. He points a finger at him. “That job was _not_ a cake walk Seokmin.”

It was a rush job, and they had all been scrambling to come up with a workable strategy within the allotted timeframe. Wonwoo didn’t even know who the client was, but from some of the comments Jeonghan had made, he suspected it was someone they’d rather not add to their list of enemies.

“That job was a fucking disaster from the start. I knew it, you knew—hell even _Hannie_ knew it, but he was too fucking proud to admit it. We were working for a faceless client, we had shitty intel and we were severely outmanoeuvred even before I walked out. Do you even _realise_ who we were going to steal from?”

“Choi Seungcheol.” Seokmin says, looking at Wonwoo with dark, solemn eyes.

Wonwoo blinks at him. “So you _knew_?”

Seokmin shakes his head. “No—I found out later.”

“And would you have agreed—had you known before?” Wonwoo asks, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

“No, probably not.” Seokmin says, his expression resigned as he pushes himself to his feet.

“Probably not.” Wonwoo scoffs. “The answer’s _no_. No, you wouldn’t have. We were never going to leave that bank in one piece, okay. This was a set up. Someone set us up.” He says, the words clipped and terse.

“But who?” Seokmin asks, wrinkling his nose.

Wonwoo grits his teeth and exhales roughly, trying to get a little of his calm back. He still isn’t clear on why Seungcheol had let Jihoon go without learning everything he wanted, but he’s beginning to form a few theories, none of them pleasant.

“I have a theory—but you’re not going to like it.” When he trails off, Seokmin looks at him expectantly, waving his hand in a circular motion.

“Let’s hear it. I’m all ears.”

“I think it was Jihoon.” Wonwoo says finally, watching carefully for Seokmin’s reaction.

“No—you’re wrong,” Seokmin says, no thought required. He tucks the gun into the waistband of his pants, then crosses his arms. “Jihoon wouldn’t do that. You _know_ how loyal he is—loyal to a fault most times. That’s why he still runs with Hannie even after all the clusterfucks of jobs he keeps pulling.”

And Wonwoo knows that, knows the shit show of a life Jihoon ran from thanks to Jeonghan’s help, just as he knows Jihoon’s more likely to point a gun on himself before any of them. But that doesn’t explain away everything Mingyu’s told him.  

“Everybody has a limit Seokmin—maybe Jihoon’s reached his.” Wonwoo says, shrugging in a _‘I know it’s crazy, but what if?’_ sort of way. “I know him and Hannie go way back, but you gotta admit, there have been tensions between them these last few jobs. Maybe Jihoon’s intention wasn’t to line us up like ducks, but to use the heist as a way to impress Choi Seungcheol.”

Seokmin laughs a little, shaking his head. “So—what? You think he posed as the faceless client, planned a job he knew would fail just to sell us out to Choi Seungcheol and get in with his crew?”

“It would explain why he’s working for him _now_.” Wonwoo says, meeting Seokmin’s sceptical expression with a challenging one of his own. It’s true, technically speaking.

Seokmin’s scepticism doesn’t waver, “How’d you find that out?”

“It’s—”

“A long story.” Seokmin interjects. He snorts and rubs at his eyes. “Yeah, you said that already.”

Wonwoo presses his lips together in a thin line and turns up the sleeves of his shirt, needlessly checking over his bandage. Seokmin is looking at him like he’s still expecting an answer, and after a minute, Wonwoo's irritation makes him snap. 

“I have a source, okay—and he told me Jihoon’s working for Choi Seungcheol now. That he’s his new head of security or something.”

The twist of Seokmin’s mouth makes it clear he knows there’s more to it than that. “Yeah—well, I have a source too. And _my_ source told me that Jihoon refused to sell us out, even under interrogation. And that Choi Seungcheol was so impressed with his show of loyalty he gave him his share of the heist money and let him leave.”

Wonwoo isn't sure he believes him—but he doesn't not believe him, either.

“Who’s your source?”

“Who’s yours?” Seokmin counters immediately.

Wonwoo frowns, “I can’t—I can’t tell you that.”

“Neither can I.” Seokmin replies, the look in his eyes unreadable.

Wonwoo's frown deepens, but he'd long ago learned that trying to pry any information out of Seokmin when he doesn't want to give it up is like trying to cup water in your hands

“I guess we’ll just sit here till Hannie shows up then.”

Seokmin groans, pressing his palms against his eyes. “That’s _if_ he even shows. He could be dead for all we know.”

Wonwoo sighs, twisting to lie down on the couch, “He’ll show. You know what Hannie’s like—loves being fashionably late.”

Seokmin tips his head back, lowering his hands. “Yeah, you’re right about that.”

A horrible thought occurs to Wonwoo, makes him sit up so quickly his back twinges. “Wait a second. Where’s Minghao?”

* * *

Minghao’s fine, thanks for asking.

He’s chilling in the Motel, bags packed and ready to go.

Junhui, as necessary to their plan, has left ("Got to speak to a mate," he said, with a wink, as he pulled out of the parking lot). It’s just a matter of waiting for him now, which is easier said then done.

With only shitty television for company, he busies himself by practicing how to stack a deck, how to do a second deal. It isn’t easy; a matter of knowing how to deal a card that's not on top and yet having no one at all notice. But Jun’s showed him a trick or two last night and told him to keep practicing in case they need a plan B. So Minghao’s repeating the motion again and again, all the while keeping an ear out for trouble.

Which is just as well, because three hours after he left, Junhui bursts into the room, looking harried.

“Alright—let’s get the hell outta here.”

Minghao checks his watch, “Check out’s not till 12:00.”

“True, but your cousin Jackson’s card just got declined, and _that_ means he’s alerted the bank that it’s been stolen. They’ve probably kindly informed him when and _where_ it was last used, so either we hang around here and wait for him or Choi Seungcheol’s goons to show up, or we live to die another day.”

Minghao’s moving before he quite realizes what’s happening: collecting the cards fanned out on the table, shrugging into his jacket, snatching his go bag from the wardrobe. He’s done this mad dash to safety a dozen times before; his body knows the routine.

The room phone rings as they’re sweeping the room, wiping down surfaces and pocketing the odd cigarette butt.

“And that will be the reception desk, right on queue.” Junhui says, letting the phone ring away.

When Minghao grabs the remote to switch the TV off, Junhui stops him with a quick hand. “Leave it. We want them to think we’re still here for as long as possible.”

They leave their keys on the coffee table as they walk out, and Minghao follows Jun across the car park, into _another_ parking area and to a car that is decidedly _not_ the one they hot-wired yesterday.

“New ride?” Minghao asks, throwing his duffel in the back and climbing in the passenger seat. 

Junhui keys the ignition and smiles back at him, rueful. “In my experience, you should never keep a stolen car for more than 12 hours, so I upgraded. Whaddya think?”

“Very nice,” Minghao grins, taking a moment to look around as he fastened his seat belt. Spotting an array of shopping bags in the rear-view mirror, he asks, “You went shopping? I thought you went to meet a friend?”

“I think we’re both in need of some new threads,” Jun says, making an all-encompassing sort of gesture at Minghao’s current ensemble. “We need to look the part for our interviews. So I got you a very nice navy blue suit. One that actually _fits_.”

Minghao scoffs. “You don’t even know my size.”

“Don’t I?” Junhui says, less a question and more smug suggestiveness. “I think last night gave me intimate knowledge of your body. I reckon I could draw you with my eyes closed.”

Minghao doesn’t even acknowledge that. He does however, bat Junhui's hand away from where he’s trying to fondle him. “Aren’t we trying to make a quick getaway here?”

“Just appreciating the merchandise.” Junhui winks, cheeky bastard that he is.

Pulling out of the parking lot, he takes the first turning back into the city centre, driving a little too fast but with the easy confidence of someone who's spent a lot of time behind the wheel.

Minghao leans his arm on the rolled-down window and watches the buildings rush past. “So—where are we going now?” He asks, redirecting the conversation; they need a game plan beyond getting rid of the car and buying new suits.

Junhui hums a little, his eyes on the road. “Back to mine. The interview’s not till 2:30, so I figured we could head there and rehearse. Never hurts to be more prepared. Speaking of which—”

He pauses to rummage in his pockets, then tosses Minghao a card.

It’s a new driver’s licence that looks a lot like his old one, except it says he was born in 92’ instead of 96’, making him 26 instead of 22, _and_ there are a few extra vowels in his last name. Minghao could argue that there’s no point having a _new_ identity that is heavily based on his _real_ one – but Junhui’s the expert forger here, and his preferable technique isn't to build a new identity from scratch, but to merge it with the real one to turn the charade more _believable_.

It’s a risky strategy, but Minghao’s willing to overlook it because the entire thing looks so damn _authentic_. It's scuffed up about the same amount as Minghao's real one, laminate rounded at the edges, one part worn down by being grabbed and tugged from a wallet or pocket. Even the signature is….

“Wait a second—” Minghao pauses for a beat, scrutinizing the front of the card. “This is my _signature_.”

Junhui stares at him like he's recently had a head injury. “Considering it's your I.D. that did seem essential, Minghao.”

“No, I mean, this is _my_ signature. _Exactly_. Complete with the smudge that's on my driver’s licence I.D., but this isn't a photocopy.”

Junhui dips his head, almost shyly. “I only had the one source to work from.”

Minghao looks at him in surprise; Junhui really is a master of all trades.

“This is pretty impressive work Jun. Did your mentor show you how to make forgeries?”

Junhui smirks, speeding up to pass someone ambling on the far lane. “No, my uncle did actually. My mum's brother. My parents didn't really like him coming round—thought he was a bad influence and all—”

“Yes, clearly their fears were completely unfounded,” Minghao confirms.

Junhui shoots him a fondly exasperated look, which he ignores. “Anyway, he'd always take me aside for a bit, usually when the parents were arguing—”

“Oh god,” Minghao grimaces, “Is this going to turn into a tragic story of incest which leads to a life of crime?”

“No!” Jun laughs, shaking his head. “Jesus, it was nothing like that, dude. He’d just take me out for Ice cream and be like— _‘Listen sport’_ —that’s what called me back then— _'the best way to learn a man's signature is by tracing it upside-down. Pretend it's an abstract and just draw it.'_ Or he might _say 'remember to always match the paper and inks exactly when doing a passport,'_ or I remember this one time—what?”

Junhui has apparently realized Minghao’s staring at him, a little slack jawed.

Minghao shakes his head to clear it, “Nothing—I’m just amazed. There’s still so much I don’t know about you.”

A quick flash of teeth, and Junhui’s hand is warm and heavy on Minghao's thigh, his breath close against the sensitive curve of his ear as he leans over to say, “True. But we have the rest of our lives to know each other.”

Minghao smacks his shoulder with the back of his hand. “Oh god, you’re so corny.”

Junhui laughs and overtakes the next car with speed.  

* * *

When Seungkwan stops his lengthy explanation, Seungcheol's the first to lean forward.

“What are you suggesting I do with this information Seungkwan?”

Seungkwan glances between him and Mr Lee anxiously. “I just figured it was an angle we could exploit.”

“I don’t see _how_.” Seungcheol says, running his eyes over Seungkwan in a manner that is frankly dismissive.

“I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss that idea Mr Choi.” Mr Lee says, rising from his chair. He points a finger at Seungkwan. “I think Mr Boo just discovered something very useful. Well done.”

“Uh, thank you?” Seungkwan's says, spine straightening with surprise; he hadn't exactly expected any compliments during this meeting—and definitely not from the illusive _Mr Lee._

He’s had exactly four interactions with the man since he was employed as the new head of security, and each time it’s left him feeling on edge. He never thought he’d meet someone who’d give Choi Seungcheol a run for his money on the intimidating stakes, but there you go.

“This cop obviously has some kind of white knight syndrome or saviour complex,” Jihoon continues, addressing them both. “Where he feels compelled to defend or even rescue innocents from people he deems to be harmful or even evil.”

Seungcheol pulls a face of irritated disbelief. “And what? _I’m_ the evil in this scenario.”

“Uh—obviously.” Mr Lee says, just as Seungkwan answers with, “Yeah, kind of.”

Seungcheol flinches at that – minutely, but Seungkwan sees it, sees that so did Mr Lee.

“That’s kinda harsh. I’m not evil. Am I?” Seungcheol murmurs quietly. He not looking at Seungkwan as he says it, of course: he’s got eyes only for Mr Lee. 

“Of course not.” Mr Lee answers with undisguised fondness. “But that’s how _he_ perceives you, just like he perceives Seungkwan to be the blameless victim. In his mind, Seungkwan is a weak, innocent man working for a ruthless, bullying mob boss. He feels protective of him, feels duty bound to help him, and _that_ is an angle we can use.”

Seungcheol makes a face that, for all the world, looks genuinely hurt.

“I don’t bully people.” He says, slightly sulky in the way he would never allow himself to be in public.

Seungkwan can't help a quiet snort. Uncharacteristically, Mr Lee looks fond and sympathetic, which is kind of sweet actually—until he follows it up with, “Will you shut up.”

He bends until he's eye-to-eye with Seungcheol, suddenly the straightforward head of security once again. “Don’t you get it Seungcheol—we can _use_ this. This cop’s here to investigate you—we _need_ to distract him.”

Seungcheol doesn't lean back, doesn't look away from Mr Lee's eyes. “How?”

“We have to get him thinking that Seungkwan’s terrified of you, that he has nobody to turn to, that he needs help—that he’s willing to confide in this guy. Seungkwan can give him just enough accurate information to establish trust, get him to buy into this charade—then,” Mr Lee says, knocking that table for emphasis. “We can give him enough rope to hang himself.”

It's surprising, maybe, to see Seungcheol lean back, his posture softening. He smiles at Mr Lee, eyes narrowing in appreciation.

“I sure am glad you’re on my side _Mr Lee_. I dread to think what you would have been like as a cop. Tenacious I imagine.”

Mr Lee tries to hide a grin and fails abysmally.

Seungkwan wonders if they’re flirting. With Seungcheol it’s hard to tell. He decides they are. He isn't sure whether he should be amused or take notes for future reference.

“Okay—you’ve convinced me.” Seungcheol says, nodding. He shifts in his chair to spear Seungkwan with a challenging _look_ , “You think you can play up the victim card?”

“Sure.” Seungkwan nods. Tipping his head considerately, he adds, “Although it might be worth our while to fabricate a little scenario or two, make it look more _authentic_.”

Seungcheol makes a disgruntled noise, drumming his fingers against the papers on his desk, “What are you thinking?”

Seungkwan scratches his chin thoughtfully, “I may have given the impression that you have a bit of a temper, so perhaps you could come yell at me at the bank?”

“In public?” Seungcheol asks. There's a short silence in which Seungcheol and Mr Lee lock eyes. Then Seungcheol drops his gaze. He shakes his head. “No—I don’t want to damage my image. It’s bad enough this cop thinks I beat my employees up, I don’t want to give the press this kind of ammo.”

“It doesn’t _have_ to be in public.” Mr Lee pipes in, looking thoughtful. “Maybe you could yell at him in an office at the back or something, conveniently in earshot of the room the detective’s using. Perhaps even smash the place up a bit. Throw a paperweight around?”

Seungkwan shrugs, unconcerned. “That could work.”

The look Seungcheol gives them is a little bit disapproving, but mostly resigned, even fond, though that last one is clearly not directed at Seungkwan. “Fine. I suppose I could condescend and play along.”

"Perfect. And on that note," Jihoon says, standing up straighter and adjusting his cufflinks, “I need to shoot off. Got a few things I need to take care of with Mr Kim. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Certainly,” Seungcheol says, jumping out of his seat. He rounds his desk in world record speed to open the door for Mr Lee, flashing a bright smile at him as he says, “Let’s catch up later— _Mon petit chou_.”

Mr Lee clearly doesn’t appreciate the chivalrous gesture—or maybe the nickname. Or perhaps _both_.

“I’m going to look up what that means, and it better not mean what I _think_ it does.” Mr Lee growls dangerously. His murderous tone has zero effect on Seungcheol though, who seems completely delighted by Mr Lee's crankiness.

Sometimes, Seungkwan truly worries about Seungcheol's sanity.

“What’s your opinion on Mr Lee?” Seungcheol asks, once said man leaves the office.

Seungkwan finds himself smiling and quickly ducking his head, schooling his expression into something more neutral as he brushes away an imaginary speck of dust on his suit. “He’s uhm—certainly _clever_.”

Seungcheol’s eyes sparkle as he glances at him, “Don’t be modest Seungkwan. He’s _amazing_.”

Seungkwan tips his head in not quite agreement.

 _Amazing_ is a bit of a stretch, but he can certainly understand why Seungcheol adopted Mr Lee as his new stray. Although with the way the boss _looks_ at him sometimes, wistful and fond, he suspects his reasons are far more _personal_.

“So when should I schedule you in for smashing up my office?” He asks.

Seungcheol makes a noncommittal sound. “We’ll finalise the details later,” He says, returning to his seat behind the desk. “Or maybe I’ll surprise you. After all, we’ll need your reaction to be authentic for the good detective.”

Seungkwan nods and turns to leave. He gets as far as opening the door before Seungcheol speaks up again.

“I don’t really come across as a bully, do I Seungkwan?”

There’s so much in his tone: disappointment, impatience, resignation, a hint of petulance. Seungkwan isn’t sure he’ll ever get used to this new side of Seungcheol, exposed and helplessly sincere.

“Of course not.” Seungkwan laughs.

In his experience, when people ask questions like that, they aren’t looking for an honest answer.

* * *

When Mingyu strolls into headquarters a little later than usual the next day, he finds Jihoon in the security office, staring at a file like it's resisting torture but will eventually be made to talk.

Jihoon gives him a mildly curious look as he approaches, then says, “You look like shit. Were you up all night or something?”

“ _No_.” Mingyu huffs.

Technically, it's the truth. He did manage a _few_ hours of sleep last night, in between those wide awake moments where he tossed and turned and occasionally paced the floor, thinking about Wonwoo. But there's no reason for Jihoon to know that.

Jihoon gives him a tight little smile, genuine but not warm, then reaches into his jacket pocket.

Mingyu stiffens in surprise, a hair’s breadth away from lunging towards Jihoon before he— _what_? Pulls out a gun and shoots him for being late to work? _Fuck_ —that’s pretty hardcore. Except that’s not what’s happening obviously, because a second later Jihoon’s pulling out a small bottle of pills and shaking them in his direction.

Mingyu raises his eyebrows.

“Caffeine tablets.” Jihoon clips, not looking him in the eye. He holds out them out towards Mingyu, and Mingyu stares at them. “I like to keep some on me at all times. Real life saver.”

Mingyu’s tempted to tell him to cram his caffeine tablets where the sun don’t shine, but Jihoon seems earnest, bottle held aloft like an olive branch of sorts.

Mingyu accepts the offering, then knocks back a handful without even consulting the dosage instructions; something about Jihoon’s impatient look tells him they won’t have time to grab a real cup of coffee anytime soon.

“I was hoping to get your opinion on something,” Jihoon begins, pocketing the bottle again. “On an urgent security matter.”

Mingyu can’t quite hold back a tight, bitter smile; he can already tell he isn’t going to like this.

“Really? Wow. Thought you knew everything there _was_ to know about the job.”

Jihoon holds up a hand as if to demolish his argument. “I never said that. What I said was—I’m sure I’ll _manage_. But if you’re not interested in helping, that’s fine. I’d rather you just be upfront about it then act like a pussy ass bitch.”

Mingyu glares at Jihoon until Jihoon glares back, but Mingyu is the first to break, dropping his gaze.  “What do you want my opinion on?”

“This poker tournament that Mr Choi is holding at the end of the month—he asked me to do some preliminary background checks on the guests, but I don’t think that’s enough. I was looking into the personnel files at the Casino, and I noticed that most of the staff hadn’t had a background check completed prior to their employment.”

“We don’t usually do background checks on people who work for us.” Mingyu points out.

“And why’s that?” Jihoon asks in a deceptively light tone.

“Uh—because they work for us. Because a lot of the people Seungcheol employs have very colourful backgrounds and if we started vetting people with a criminal record, we’d struggle to keep the vacancies filled.”

“That’s all very well and good for Mr Choi’s _other_ enterprises, but his Casino personnel should have a spotless record. At least the ones working on the casino floor.” Jihoon offers, like it's a thread of wisdom he shouldn't have to be sharing, Mingyu should _know_ already.

“ _Why_?” Mingyu scoffs. “You think they’re gonna try and _steal_ from him? This is Choi Seungcheol you’re working for, nobody is that stupid. Except _you_. And I’m sure you’ll not make that mistake again.”

Jihoon shoots him an unimpressed look.

“That’s not the point Mingyu. The gaming commissions regulations clearly states that all staff working on the casino floor should have a thorough background check, to protect _ourselves_ against any improprieties. If we get inspected and aren’t up to standard, our operating licence could be revoked, and that would bring a shit show of problems to Mr Choi’s doorstep. This tournament's already going to get a lot of publicity and I’m sure he wouldn’t want it to be for the wrong reasons. Besides—a thorough background check will also reveal if anyone working for us isn’t who they say they are. And that, more than anything else, is the _real_ danger.”

Mingyu shakes his head but concedes the point. “So—you want to screen all current employees?”

“That would be a start, yeah.” Jihoon says, shrugging, “But I also think we need to _tighten_ our interview process.” He pauses to lift the file he’d been looking through earlier and holds it open at the front page, “I had a look through a few personnel files this morning, just picked a few at random, and already alarm bells are ringing in my head. Look at _this_ guy for instance.”

Mingyu takes the file with some reluctance, starts reading through the details.

The entire first page is covered with sticky notes, which in turn are covered with Jihoon’s preternaturally neat penmanship. There’s also a worrying amount of question marks in the margins and large chunks of highlighted text that Jihoon _obviously_ thinks is pertinent information, but Mingyu can’t see what the issue is.

He says as much.

“I don’t get it. Says here he had a background check completed and it came up clear. What’s the problem?”

Jihoon slaps a hand to his forehead and sighs, like Mingyu’s an _idiot_.

“Yes—but _look_ at his details I’ve highlighted. They don’t add up. He’s got a good credit history despite being newly employed a month ago; lives by himself in an apartment in Seoul that he definitely can’t afford, and his previous employment history claims he worked in a Lotte Mart in Busan. The cell phone number we have recorded for him has only been operational for a month, and when I called the number he supplied for his reference, the call was transferred— _twice_. First through a switchboard, and then to a private landline. That’s pretty fishy. Not to mention his photograph doesn’t match with his age. There’s no way this guy looks 24. He’s in his thirties at least.”

Mingyu gaze flickers between Jihoon and the file, “What are you saying?”

“I’m _saying_ he’s a fucking _cop_.” Jihoon spits.

There's a resounding silence in the room.

“Oh.” Mingyu swallows thickly.

Is it bad that he didn’t see that coming?

 _Probably_.

Jihoon sighs, pinching his brow. “Look—I know this tournament is just some big coverup to distract from something else Mr Choi is doing, just as I know that if anyone was looking to disrupt his activities, this is how they’ll get their foot in the door. We need to make sure that anyone who works for us—actually _works for us.”_

Mingyu runs a hand over his hair. “I can speak to casino management—”

“I’ve already spoken to them.” Jihoon interrupts, carelessly confident. He pulls the file out of Mingyu’s hands, continues flipping through it, “They’ve already started background checks.”

“Then what do you need me for?” Mingyu asks, absently scratching the bridge of his nose.

“Well—first of all, we need to find a way to fire _this_ son of a bitch.” Jihoon says, tapping the file in his hand for emphasis.

Mingyu snorts. “Easy. Consider it taken care of.”

“A _legal_ way—” Jihoon interjects, baring his teeth in an expression that can't be called a smile. “A way that _doesn’t_ involve a pair of cement shoes. We can’t afford to have any more cops sniffing around.”

Mingyu groans in disbelief, but Jihoon just talks right over him, “And secondly, they’re holding interviews today for a few positions. I think it would be a good idea if we sat in on them, see what the current criteria is and see if we can refine it. Following that, I don’t think we should advertise anymore vacancies until _after_ the tournament. If anyone’s going to try and plant a rat in our midst—this will be the time for it.”

Mingyu smirks at him, unconvinced, “You want me to interview casino floor staff? That’s uh—a little below my pay grade.”

It's plain that Jihoon disapproves – if not from the cold, flinty look in his eyes, then from the way he snaps the folder shut. He turns away, busies himself with tucking the documents away in their respective folders before rounding on Mingyu.

“Well then perhaps I should speak to Mr Choi,” He says, poking Mingyu in the chest, “See if he’ll _lower_ your paygrade—then _maybe_ you won’t have a problem with it.”

That suggestion makes the smirk slide right off Mingyu’s face. He narrows his eyes dangerously.

Mingyu is good with people normally, really he is. But there is a specific type of jerk that he can't deal with, and that's the amateur who thinks he knows everything there is to know. The kind of person who thinks they can step into anyone’s shoes and do everything they do _better_. Jihoon is absolutely that person, and whether he likes it or not—Mingyu _has_ to get along with him. Because the alternative is to…..

Well….

 _Seungcheol is very, very, very fond of Jihoon—_ he quickly reminds himself, because if he doesn’t, he may lose concentration and take a swing at the bastard.

He offers a tight smile instead, sliding his hands into the front pockets of his slacks as he says, “You know—I really don’t like you Mr Lee.”

“No, I don’t think that’s it.” Jihoon fires back. File clutched in his hand, he gives Mingyu a prim little pat on the chest, “I think you just don’t like being held accountable for something you should have thought of five years ago.”

Mingyu bristles at that.

Jihoon’s got an incredible talent for taking simple statements and sharpening them into insults. It’s almost enough to make Mingyu want to make poor decisions just to spite him. Currently, he’s too tired, or perhaps too stung by Jihoon’s assessment to think up of a suitable retort, so just glares until Jihoon leaves the office. 

As partnerships go, they're off, he thinks, to a  _wonderful_  start.

* * *

Jeonghan spends the majority of his first day under house arrest _not_ attempting to escape like originally planned, but rather immersing himself in the research file Jisoo has amassed about the man calling himself Choi Seungcheol.

He begins to frown halfway through the first page detailing Seungcheol’s childhood, (dead mother, absentee alcoholic father and a string of boarding schools— _tragic_ ) and his forehead remains creased as he ploughs onto the next page, through Seungcheol’s later years, (magazine spreads, charitable galas and private islands— _glamourous_ ) after the man built his fortune.

The page after that is disturbingly _blank_.

There’s no arrest record to speak of, no juvenile offences—not even a single speeding ticket, which is amazing considering the fleet of sports cars the man owns.

With government funding and a taskforce deathly _committed_ to taking Choi Seungcheol down at his fingertips, Jeonghan was expecting Jisoo to have a little more _useful_ information about the guy who can end Jeonghan's existence with more ease than Jeonghan can crush a cockroach. But so far, the only facts they’ve got have been obtained from such sources as the paparazzi, Seungcheol's former boyfriends, and the odd cash-strapped distant relative willing to share a few family secrets.

It’s hardly _incriminating_ evidence, unless they plan on indicting Seungcheol for how he likes his eggs in the morning— _over easy, with toast soldiers on the side for dipping,_ according to a man he dated five years ago.

“Why are all the hard facts you have on this guy pure bullshit?” Jeonghan asks, as much to fill the silence as anything else. “Is this seriously all you have?”

Jisoo glances up from his work to acknowledge him, but only for a second. He’s frowning, but he's not actively disagreeing.

“I’m afraid so. Anybody who _knows_ anything worthwhile has never spoken up.”

Jeonghan tsks, flipping back through the dossier, “Honestly, this reads like a celebrity’s autobiography. I feel like I’m learning about some movie star’s life here—not a mob boss. Where are all the murder charges and witness testimonies? This guy should have a rap sheet a mile long.”

Jisoo nods distractedly, his attention still focused on his computer. He seems about to say something, but he stops himself. Instead, he smiles. It’s remarkable, how untroubled he seems by all this.

“Mr Choi’s always been very good at pulling the wool over people’s eyes. He’s built an image for himself as some charitable debonair businessman, but we both know that’s not true.”

Jeonghan shrugs affably, because he doesn't know anything of the kind. “I can’t say I do. I mean, _sure_ —I knew who he _was_ , and I knew I should avoid him at all costs. But until recently, I’d never crossed paths with the guy. His name was more like a whisper in the wind, his presence like the breath on the back of your neck. He lives in the cracks—watching you when you least expect it.”

“Please—” Jisoo snorts without looking away from his screen. “You’re making him sound like the _bogeyman_.”

Jeonghan looks at the photos of Choi Seungcheol currently covering the kitchen table, the one of him staring back at the camera man with a no-fucks-given attitude, then looks meaningfully back at Jisoo.

“Well—he _kind_ of is.”

Jisoo finally lifts his head to look him square in the eye. “Choi Seungcheol is _not_ untouchable.” He clarifies testily, touchy at the very suggestion. “He’s human, just like the rest of us. He has faults, fears and more importantly, he has _weaknesses_.”

Jeonghan looks at him, wanting it to be true.

He already knew coming into this that it wasn’t going to be easy, that he would effectively become persona-non-grata with most, if not all the criminal world by working with the cops. But everything he has gathered up until now suggests that Choi Seungcheol will be even tougher to crack than expected. People have tried to before. People have ended up floating under bridges.

Or so Jeonghan hears. 

“So why aren’t these so-called _weaknesses_ detailed in his file?” He suggests gently, nodding at the dossier.

“We don’t know them yet.” Jisoo sighs, absently picking up one of the photographs of Seungcheol standing outside his Casino, leaning in to light his cigarette.

No one should be able to make smoking look _that_ sexy, Jeonghan thinks with annoyance. If the tobacco companies ever get wind of just how devastatingly handsome Seungcheol looks with a cigarette pressed between his lips, he fears for the general health of the population. Jesus fucking Christ, he feels like lighting one up himself right now.

“But we’ll find out what they are one day—” Jisoo continues in his grouchy monologue, tossing the photograph down again, “And we’ll make him nervous enough to make the wrong move. Then I can put him away, once and for all.”

Jeonghan can almost see the dark corners of Jisoo’s brain lighting up, the machinery of obsession whirring to life. He guesstimates Jisoo and him are around the same age, give or take a few months—except out of the two of them Jisoo’s more world weary, wearing his experience in the tension of his shoulders, the frown lines etched around his eyes.

Jeonghan can’t help but wonder why he’s chosen to be here, baby-sitting a crook and leading a taskforce like his life _depends_ on it.

“Why are you so hell bent on taking Choi down anyway?” He asks, intrigued.

“I’m a police officer—it’s my job.” Jisoo answers, with blatantly feigned disinterest.

Jeonghan doesn't roll his eyes, but only because it's beneath his dignity, “No. I mean—what’s your _personal_ motivation?”

If the question takes Jisoo by surprise, he doesn't let it show. “I don’t have one.”

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow at him disbelievingly. “Of course, you do. You’re here, undercover, practically scraping together resources, trying to put away a man nobody has ever had the balls to speak badly about let alone arrest. And you’ve clearly been trying to do it for some time. So, it’s clearly personal for you. I’d just like to know _why_.”

Jisoo’s only answer is to press his lips into thin, displeased line and turn back to his notes.

Jeonghan has a quick, unwanted flash: a man gagged and bludgeoned, plunged in the ocean. A thin chain of silver bubbles trailing him into the black. He takes a breath and changes tacks, “So what did he do? Did he kill your partner or something?”

“No.”

“A relative then.”

Jisoo shakes his head, “Nope.”

Jeonghan adopts a sympathetic expression, “Did you go to high school together and he pantsed you in the hallways and you’ve never gotten over it?”

Jisoo levels him a look that suggests of he wasn’t a law-abiding citizen, he would very much like to throw Jeonghan off the top of a very tall building.

“Like I said— _it’s my job_.” He repeats firmly. There’s an angry clench to his jaw, and God help him, Jeonghan finds that attractive.

He sits up, mustering an indolent little smile. “C’mon Jisoo. There must be more to it than that. If you tell me, I promise I won’t share. I’m good at keeping secrets.”

Jisoo shakes his head, “I’m so sorry to disappoint, but unlike you, I don’t have a hidden agenda. I only believe in what’s right and what’s wrong. In _justice_.” His tone is so dignified it practically has its pinky out.

Jeonghan smirks, holding his gaze, “I don’t believe that for a second.”

“And I don’t care what you believe.” Jisoo looks him in the eye, contrary to the very end. “Just do what you’re here for. We don’t have to talk.”

Jeonghan sighs but nods obligingly, returning to his notes. This topic is far from closed, of course, but he’ll have ample time later to make Jisoo aware of that.

He knows better than to believe the brilliant, beautiful idealists. They're far more dangerous than the criminals and thieves. Jeonghan doesn't need his life complicated by someone else's moral compass.

* * *

Even walking to the Casino, they can spare ten minutes to buy coffee. Minghao waits outside while Jun orders for them both, rubbing his hands together to keep warm.

Jun hands him his cup, allowing their fingers to brush together, only for a moment.

"You’re hand’s shaking—you nervous?" Junhui says, after a moment's silence.

“No.” Minghao says, succinctly. At Junhui’s annoyingly patient look, he adds, “Yeah, a little. Do you blame me? The last time I walked into a Choi enterprise I nearly _died_.”

Jun nods sympathetically, “Same, dude. But don’t worry about it. It’s not like Choi Seungcheol himself is gonna be conducting the interview. It’s just gonna be some boot licker in lower tier management who can’t tell his asshole from his elbow. Our CV’s are solid, our ID’s are clean—all we have to do is impress these assholes and then we’re in. _Besides_ , if anyone should be nervous it’s me; casino floor employees have stricter checks to undergo than hotel staff. Your interview should be easy.”

He sounds so certain that it doesn't even cross Minghao's mind to doubt him. He nods. “If you say so.” 

“I do say so.” Junhui says, the line of his mouth soft. “It’s gonna be fine. _You got this_.”

Minghao grunts something that admits to nothing.

Junhui pats him on the back, already striding ahead, “Remember, we don’t know each other, we go in separately—no contact until we meet back at my place.”

Minghao nods again, a nervous tick at this point. “Good luck.” He calls out.

Junhui stops and turns, then gives him a sudden, unexpectedly bright smile as if to say luck isn't needed.

Minghao wishes he possessed a _fraction_ of his confidence.

* * *

Junhui can use all the luck he can get, as it turns out.

He’s posed as a hundred different people in his line of work, sat through countless interviews and bullshitted with the best of them. Sure, it’s been a while since he’s had to _pretend_ to be someone else, but he wouldn’t say he’s out of practice. _No_. He’s still got the winning personality, the charming smile, the firm handshake. And if that’s not enough to sell him, he’s utilised his skills to create a masterful CV with full references and a covering letter—not using his real name, of course, but the identity he’s created— _Kim Woo-bin, 26, from Incheon_ —is _flawless_.

By all accounts, this interview should be like a walk in the park, they should be offering him a job before he walks out the door—but there’s just one thing he couldn’t have anticipated: the man sitting in the corner, monitoring the whole thing with his quick, assessing eyes.

He's a short, slight man with dark hair, a too big Rolex and a bespoke suit—strangely out of place among the ranks of Casino middle management. He introduces himself as Mr Lee—but doesn’t reveal anything else, just takes a seat as the interview starts and flips through Junhui’s (Kim Woo-bin’s) CV, occasionally stopping to type _something_ into a laptop.

He’s distracting as fuck, especially when the interviewer asks, _‘Why do you want this job?’_ and Junhui falls into an enthusiastic explanation that should win him a fucking Oscar, but that Mr Lee entirely fails to appreciate.

Mr Lee stops flicking through the CV to look over at Junhui, a neat little furrow in the centre of his forehead. The man hadn’t been watching him particularly closely before, but now his attention is like a homing beacon piercing directly through him.

“But why do you want to work for _Choi Seungcheol?”_ He asks, speaking for the first time since the interview started.

That's a good question, actually. 

One Junhui should have expected yet didn’t prepare himself for.

The fact of the matter is—he _doesn’t_ want to work for Choi Seungcheol. He wants to destroy him. Granted, stealing one picture, regardless of it’s worth, is not going to bankrupt the bastard overnight. But he wants him to _suffer_ ; to experience the loss of something so personal, something he cherishes so deeply it will shake him to the core. _Everyone bleeds._

“Everybody needs to make a living. Right? And who wouldn’t want to work at Choi Casino’s. It’s an institution.” Jun smiles, trying to give nothing away.

Mr Lee nods in apparent approval—then says, “That’s a nice suit you’re wearing. What is it?”

Out of habit, Junhui’s hand dives into his pocket for his poker chip, “Uhm, Simon Spurr.”

Mr Lee follows the rushed movement with his eyes, before they slowly slide back up to Junhui’s face.

“ _Really_? You’re wearing a new designer suit—to interview for a low paying job.” He says, but not in a judgy way, more in an ascertaining-facts way.

“Need to look my best, don’t I? First impressions and all that.” Junhui says, a little surprised at just how composed and collected he sounds.

Mr Lee folds his hands and looks at him dead-on, stone-faced. Well, not quite. There’s a speculative gleam in his eyes that Junhui doesn't like one bit. He _knows_ that look, has been on the receiving end of it minutes before he ended up locked in some jail cell; it’s the expression that says someone is calling his bullshit.

“I estimate you’d need to work at least four months on the Casino floor to pay off the money for a suit like that. Where’d you get the money?” Mr Lee asks next.

“A loan.” Junhui blurts out, before he has a chance to think better of it.

For a good long while, Mr Lee just surveys him contemplatively. Junhui sits perfectly still, not letting himself waver. Then with a dangerous sort of primness, Mr Lee draws himself up and sets Junhui’s CV aside.  

“Thank you for your interest in the position— _Mr Kim._ But I don’t think you’re the right candidate for a position with Choi Casino’s.” He says, a ghost of a smile on his face.

 _Yeah_.

Junhui can use all the luck he can get.

* * *

Between the two of them, they sit through a dozen interviews. Mingyu isn't completely happy with the plan, but Jihoon's the head of security now and as much as it _pains_ Mingyu to admit, he’s got a point: they _have_ gotten lax with their basic security clearance procedures.

Saying that—Mingyu’s nearly asleep in his seat during the last interview, and doesn’t even bother flipping through the guy’s CV for any inconsistencies.

When the interview comes to an end, he stretches with a joint-popping crackle, and leaves to rendezvous with Jihoon.

He finds him sitting in the small waiting area in the lobby, a steaming cup of coffee at his side and searching something on Google that’s making him really fucking angry.

"Are we done here?" Mingyu says, checking his watch. It's nearly 6:30pm. The evening air is growing chill around them and he’s beginning to feel the weight of all his aches and sleepless nights.

Jihoon shrugs, takes a sip of his coffee, never breaking his gaze. “You’re welcome to go,” he says, setting the cup down to pick up a file. “I still have a few things I need to review first.”

Mingyu shakes his head in disbelief.

He’s beginning to suspect that Jihoon just doesn't believe in plain human discomfort. He doesn't even seem tired, really, though his motions have slowed down, his voice grown quieter. Like he's conserving his strength. Mingyu, frankly, would quite like to faceplant on a mattress somewhere – he doesn't much care where by now – but it won't do so seem like the only one who needs sleep.

"I’ll stay," he says, with false decisiveness. "It’s half the workload when there’s two of us."

"Not if you’re sleeping on your ass it’s not," Jihoon says, and to Mingyu’s surprise follows that up with, "Just go Mingyu—I can handle it from here."

Mingyu can’t be bothered to muster up the energy to argue with him on that point. "Works for me." He says, tossing his keys in the air. Catching them neatly, he leans over the back of the seat, fists clenched tight against the leather. “Word of advice Jihoon—don’t be a martyr, working late nights and exhausting yourself with every little detail is admirable, truly. But if you think Seungcheol’s gonna pat you on the head for it—you’re _wrong_. When you do things right, it’s almost as if you’ve done nothing at all.”

Jihoon frowns at him like Mingyu is the saddest specimen of a person he's ever had the misfortune of encountering.

“Why do you do this job if you hate it so much?” He asks, just catching Mingyu’s attention as he turns to leave.

It would be a parting blow from anyone else, but the thing is, Jihoon doesn't even sound bitter or angry. He sounds like he genuinely wants to know.

Mingyu pretends to think it over, “Who says I hate it?" he finally offers, which startles a laugh out of Jihoon.

“Everything about your attitude suggests you’d rather be somewhere else, doing something else. I can’t help but think—Why _don’t_ you?”

He sounds like he doesn't expect Mingyu to disagree. Like he thinks he has Mingyu's number.

Mingyu’s first urge, at this, is to punch him. Once. Just once. Right in the teeth. Maybe mess his face up a little so he doesn’t look so damn pretty. He only holds back because he’s 100% certain Seungcheol would actually _crucify_ him for it.

In the end, he just laughs.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t go making assumptions about me without all the facts. I’m sure you wouldn’t like it if I made assumptions about you, knowing where you’ve come from and what you’ve _done_ to get here—it wouldn’t paint a very pretty picture I think.”

Jihoon’s face changes, his earlier easy expression shifting into something harder, less comfortable. Mingyu could dissect that face effortlessly, if he wanted to. He could take Jihoon apart, could read emotions and motivations into every fine line and twitch of muscle.

He doesn’t, though.

He walks away, spinning his keys as he goes.

As he’s approaching the glass double doors, the Casino Manager intercepts him. He catches Mingyu’s gaze and signals discreetly but urgently with his left hand –  _a word please_ – and Mingyu promptly changes course.

“What is it?” Mingyu bites out impatiently.

Thankfully, the man takes it in his stride. He has been dealing with Jihoon all day, so he’s probably immune to irritated impatience by now.

“Just thought I’d let you know, we’ve taken care of the employee you wanted removed. Planted some poker chips in his locker. He doesn’t have a leg to stand on.” The man explains.

Mingyu claps him on the shoulder, “Great. Good job.”

“And the results of the rest of the background checks should be available by tomorrow.” The man continues.

Mingyu waves a hand dismissively, “Well, when they come through you can forward them directly to Mr L—” He pauses, an idea clicking together in his mind.

Wonwoo had accidentally revealed something about Jihoon last night; an unsavoury little detail about his past he doubts Seungcheol’s aware of. It might have no bearing on the situation, but the boss deserves to know who he’s hired.

“Actually,” He says, pulling a pen out of his pocket and scribbling Jihoon’s name down. “I need you to do a background check on _one more person_. A thorough one. And make sure you forward the information to me and me alone.”

The casino manager nods, taking the slip of paper.

Poking around in Jihoon’s background is probably a little low, but Mingyu justifies it to himself as a necessary security measure, even as he knows he's bullshitting himself.  

* * *

It turns out that Jisoo cooks the same way he does most things: capably, economically, and without the slightest hint of originality. Jeonghan has no doubt that the Spanish omelette Jisoo cobbles together has come straight out of some cookbook or another, and that it has never once occurred to Jisoo to deviate from the original recipe.

It’s good, though, and Jeonghan is famished, so he keeps his thoughts to himself. They eat in a not uncomfortable silence, both of them paying more attention to their food than to each other, and when they’ve finished, Jisoo clears the plates and goes to do the washing up.

His phone buzzes as he’s filling the sink with hot water, and he turns off the tap to pull it out of his pocket. It’s just a message it seems, but Jisoo stares at the screen with a little frown of worry marring his forehead.

“Bad news?” Jeonghan prompts, using Jisoo’s distraction as an opportunity to slip a fork off the table up his sleeve.  

Jisoo shrugs, “You could say that.” His mouth draws into a tight line as he pockets his phone again. “We just lost our man on the ground. An _informant_.”

“That—” serves you right, Jeonghan thinks. “That’s tough dude. How high up the ranks was he?”

Joshua shakes his head, seemingly unbothered. “Not very. Just someone we had working on the casino floor, keeping an eye on things. It seems management decided to conduct random locker searches and found a pile of stolen poker chips in his. Fired him on the spot.”

“Idiot.” Jeonghan sighs.

He means it as a statement, not reproach, but Jisoo spins to face him. His expression is pinched.

“He didn’t actually _steal_ them Jeonghan—they were _planted_. Obviously, management are getting wise to the tactics we’ve been employing to get our people inside and have taken new measures in screening their employees. They knew he was a cop.”

Jeonghan frowns, considering.

Nobody on the ground means no intel, and no intel means flying blind, and flying blind is Jeonghan’s least favourite way to die. A casino floor worker wouldn’t have had access to the nitty gritty side of Choi Seungcheol’s business dealings, but it would have been _something_ ; security detail and floor plans and shift schedules at the least.

“Can you get somebody else in?” He asks, because it shouldn’t be that difficult with the resources Jisoo’s taskforce has.

“Not in the same way.” Jisoo says, and unhappy twist of his mouth. “Apparently, they’re removed all vacancies from their site. Not currently hiring.”

“Battening down the hatches, huh?” Jeonghan smirks. “Well—maybe Mr Choi is capable of feeling _nervous_ after all?”

That gets an amicable snort out of Jisoo, so Jeonghan counts it as a win.

* * *

After working almost exclusively with Jeonghan for so long, there's something of an adjustment period to being a free agent again; one that Jihoon is finding uniquely stressful. He's a man of method, when it comes to work, and a creature of habit. Seungcheol’s crew, as it turns out, is decidedly  _not_.

It doesn't help that Mingyu has a chip on his shoulder and Soonyoung is a loose cannon—at least so far as Jihoon's concerned—and he finds himself caught between a sort of active disdain for their methods, and what basically amounts to helicopter parenting, while Choi Seungcheol himself takes a laissez-faire approach to the whole thing. As such, it’s been incredibly draining few days for Jihoon just screening employees, weeding out potential problems and restructuring their security protocols to ensure nothing goes wrong coming up to the tournament.

He’s somehow subsisted on the bare minimum of food and sleep, but by 7pm—he can feel himself flagging. He calls it a day, orders some Chinese and drives back to his apartment, then stubs his toe on a heavy parcel left sitting on the doormat.

Jihoon curbs his first instinct to hurl the box down a flight of stairs and carries it inside, sets it on the kitchen counter while he slips out of his jacket and plates up his dinner. He’s three mouthfuls into his Chicken Lo Mein when he realises the parcel, that has no address label or distinguishing markings, could have nefarious origins.

Parcels left outside your doorstep in his line of work are usually _explosive_ in nature, so with much trepidation, he pushes his dinner aside and reaches for it.

When he finally, _carefully_ , tears open the cardboard, he doesn't have a moment's doubt about who sent the package.

There’s a black marble box inside, with the Choi Casino’s insignia engraved on the top.

For a long minute, Jihoon can’t figure out how to open it. He stares at the box, mystified by its unique appearance—until he presses down on the crest and a compartment pops open from the side like a Japanese puzzle box, revealing a pack of playing cards and a single poker chip.

Huh. _Weird_.

Jihoon sets the peculiar box aside and finishes his dinner, with plans to return to it once he cleans up. This is delayed somewhat when halfway through washing the dishes, the kitchen tap sputters and dies.

It does this every few months, and Jihoon has to go through the arduous process of contacting the landlord, who couldn’t care less, and waiting for a plumber to show up, sometimes weeks later.

He doesn’t have the time to wait around for some moth brain to show up and fix his plumbing, and he’s watched the plumber at work enough times to have a reasonable understanding of how to repair the tap himself. So he removes his tie, rolls up his sleeves and decides to give it a go.

How hard can it be?

The answer to that question turns out to be: very hard.

Two hours later, Jihoon has denigrated into browsing _‘How-to’_ tutorials on YouTube, been completely drenched twice, and, in one moment of terrible, terrible agony, been sprayed with the entire contents of their garbage disposal. There are tools strewn across the floor, the sink is undoubtedly worse off than it was before he started, and Jihoon is feeling the beginnings of a serious headache.

The tap, of course, has yet to produce a single drop of water.

It’s the shitty end to a very long and stressful day, and Jihoon’s too wet and cold to give the repair job another go. He leaves the mess in the kitchen and heads to the shower, stripping off his clothes as he goes.

The second he steps foot in the basin—he hears his phone ringing in the kitchen. Typical.  

Jihoon glares at the wall, and seriously considers ignoring it. He decides against that, though, and sighs, dragging himself out of the bathroom. He's naked, so he grabs a towel and wraps it around his waist. He tries tucking it in place, but it doesn't want to stay, and Jihoon's maybe 80% sure that that's because he’s freezing, and his hands aren't exactly working right just yet. He ends up just holding it and shuffling into the kitchen to grab his phone.

The screen display says it’s Mr Choi. And, _of course_ it is.

“Good evening Mr Lee.” Seungcheol begins, in the composed voice that sends shivers down Jihoon’s spine. “How was your day?”

“Fine.” Jihoon breathes, barely loud enough to be heard.

There’s a pause, then: “ _Just_ fine? I don’t like the sound of that.”

“It was great. Awesome. I love my job. Your _‘Best boss ever’_ mug is in the post.” Jihoon says flatly.

Seungcheol’s laugh is unexpected, a sudden blaze of summer in the midst of a mild day. In Jihoon’s private, never-to-be-spoken opinion, it’s a lovely sound.

“You know—it’s not every day that someone makes me laugh, but you seem to have a knack for it, Mr Lee.”

Jihoon shrugs even though Seungcheol can’t see it, and answers as flippantly as he can. “Well, you should definitely laugh more. It might make everyone stop shitting themselves in fear every time you walk into a room.”

“I was just on the phone to Mingyu as it happens.” Seungcheol says, changing the topic smoothly like he’s just remembered some stealthy operative could have hacked through their ironclad connection and be getting a very interesting earful. “He was filling me in on some interesting new _strategies_ you have.”

Jihoon shifts where he stands, restless bordering on impatient, “Oh yeah? What’s he bitchin about now?”

That startles another laugh out of Seungcheol, “Oh, it was nothing like that.” He says, good-naturedly enough. “He expressed some concerns, naturally—but the impression I get is that he’s reluctantly impressed with your tactics.”

“Really? Well _that’s_ surprising.” Jihoon snorts—then _growls_ when despite his best attempts to secure it, the towel around his waist falls to the floor.  

“Is everything okay Mr Lee?” Seungcheol says into the phone, sounding concerned, “You’re sounding rather—” He seems to be searching for the right word, “ _stressed_.”

Jihoon stares down the naked landscape of his body and sighs, “That’s because I’m wet and cold and naked.” And, _damn it_ —he really shouldn’t be having a conversation under these conditions, and definitely not with his boss.

“Wet and naked huh?” Seungcheol echoes. Jihoon can hear him draw a breath and let it out slowly, before adding, _“Tell me more,” in a low rumble; flirty._  

Jihoon’s body takes immediate notice, and he has to swallow down the inexplicable, inconvenient spike of arousal.

“It’s not an exciting story, okay.” He huffs, torn between amusement and cheek-burning embarrassment. “A pipe in the kitchen broke—and I got wet fixing it. I was about to jump into the shower when you called, _that’s_ why I’m naked.”

The line is quiet for a moment, then:

“Your phone has video chat function, _right_?” Seungcheol says, in that gravelly, suggestive way of his.

Jihoon can feel his cheeks pink.

“I’m not video chatting with you naked!” He says, not even bothering to hide his outrage.

“I never suggested you _should_ video chat with me in the nude Mr Lee.” Seungcheol says, voice husky, “Although, if you’re _offering_ ….”

Jihoon can practically _hear_ the eyebrow waggle over the phone.

He refuses to dignify that with a response.

Seungcheol is just being Seungcheol, always quick to turn the slightest opportunity into innuendo and _always_ relishing in finding new ways to get under Jihoon's skin. It doesn't mean anything—Jihoon reminds himself, so he resolves to not let the flirting get to him.

“Is there a point to this call Mr Choi?” He deflects smoothly.

Seungcheol chuckles quietly in return, “Do I _need_ a reason to speak to my head of security?”

Jihoon laughs in spite of himself, “Well, _yeah_. _Usually_ there would be a security matter to discuss.”

“There doesn’t have to be. Maybe I just wanted to hear your voice.” Seungcheol replies, and damn it if that doesn't make something clench in Jihoon's chest.

Jihoon’s pulse hammers up his throat, because that’s not innuendo. That sounds _nothing_ like innuendo actually. Seungcheol sounds sure and shy and earnest, and he might just be faking it– but then, he might not. Jihoon doesn’t know how to respond, not in any way that would sound coherent anyway. It’s appalling, how easily Seungcheol can rob him of words.

“You’re tired.” Seungcheol ventures finally, when the silence threatens to become actually physically uncomfortable. “I’ll ah—let you get some sleep—”

“No, wait—” Jihoon finds himself interrupting.

He has no idea what possesses him to keep Seungcheol on the line. That would have been the perfect opportunity to end this incredibly awkward conversation, but there's something pounding inside him, a sharp-toothed thrill he can't pause to properly place.

He blinks rapidly and clears his throat, “I—I have a question actually.”

There's a moment of silence, and he wonders if Seungcheol is still there, if Seungcheol can hear his heart pounding over the phone.

“Oh yeah?” Seungcheol continues after a beat.

Jihoon switches his phone to his left hand so he can drag the black marble box closer, “A box arrived for me today. Shiny marble thing with the Choi Casino crest on the front. It has a few weird items inside.”

“Ah, yeah—you’re _welcoming_ gift.” Seungcheol answers. 

“Welcoming gift?” Jihoon echoes, frowning down at the contents of the box. “I thought the car and the wardrobe of suits and the fat paycheque were my welcoming gift.”

“No, no. Those are extra’s. Little perks of working for me. The contents of the box are far more important.” Seungcheol says, in that low, fervent way of his that can make even the biggest steaming pile of shit sound like the wisdom of the ages.

“Really?” Jihoon asks dubiously. “It’s just a poker chip and a deck of cards.”

Seungcheol chuckles at this, silky and dangerous.

Jihoon can hear him moving around, the sounds of glass clinking in the background. He’s probably still in his office, working his way through a bottle of overpriced whiskey, which wouldn't surprise Jihoon in the least.

“Have you _looked_ at the cards?” Seungcheol finally says.

Jihoon frowns. He cradles the phone between his cheek and shoulder to flip open the pack and tip them into his palm. They’re beautifully finished, he’ll admit—hand painted in glittering shades of red and black and what appears to be actual gold leaf.  Shuffling through them, he notices something amiss—so he sets them face up on the table and fans them in an arc.

There’s only one card in the entire deck, the same suite: Ace of hearts. They must signify _something_ , but for the life of him Jihoon doesn’t understand what—especially now when he's too tired to even think, let alone properly analyse.

“It’s just a full deck of ace of hearts. What’s that supposed to mean?”

Of course, Seungcheol being who he is, an enigma wrapped in a conundrum dressed in an Armani suit, remains vague and mysterious, “It’s symbolises your rank in my crew. Everyone who works closely with me gets their own personalised deck, and I thought for you, the Ace of hearts was especially _fitting_.”

Jihoon doesn’t exactly see how the one connects to the other, but he keeps that thought to himself. He picks up the poker chip next, rolling it between his fingers to feel out its shape.

“Okay, but what’s with the poker chip?” He asks, not particularly expecting a straightforward answer to this either.

“Treat it as a get out of jail free card, or a severance of sorts. You can cash it in when you think the time is right.” Seungcheol explains, in a way he obviously thinks is perfectly understandable.

It’s not.

“Are you going to explain what any of this means? Or do you just love an opportunity to be more mysterious than you already are?” Jihoon grumbles. 

Laughter erupts over the phone—sharp and unexpected.

“Has anyone every told you how _adorable_ you are when you’re angry?” Seungcheol replies with the smooth bluntness that charms as well as irritates.  Jihoon’s leaning more towards _irritated_ right now, and is gripped with the sudden desire to lob something sharp and pointy in Seungcheol’s direction.

“Has anyone told you how fucking _patronising_ you are all of the time?” He spits back. It comes out harsh, louder and angrier than Jihoon intends, but Seungcheol seems to take it in stride.

“Nobody that works for me, that’s for sure. But I’ll happily make an exception for you— _Mon petit chou.”_ Seungcheol says, voice raspy and slightly amused. He sounds cheerful, almost, like he’s not looking for an argument, just stating a fact, and isn’t Jihoon adorably neurotic for getting so worked up over it.

Jihoon tries very hard not to grit his teeth.  

“Oh, piss off!” He snaps, feeling his insides quiver, unwilling to look deeply at the cause. He hates that Seungcheol can drop endearments like it’s nothing, hates the way that makes his heart seize up like a fist even when Seungcheol is being a patronizing asshole. “And another thing—I looked that up, _My little cabbage_. What’s that supposed to fucking mean? That I look like a cabbage patch kid or something? You jackass.”

“My little _cabbage_?” Seungcheol echoes, taking a second to catch on. “Oh. Oh no, that’s precious.”

He is silent for a minute, then Jihoon hears him make a small, strained noise. When he ramps up the volume on the phone and listens in really carefully, he discovers that the bastard is actually _stifling laughter_.

"What the hell is so _funny_?" Jihoon demands.

“Sorry, I just—” Seungcheol begins, but then he just starts laughing again, stuttering, “Oh my god—my little _cabbage_.”

He’s gasping for breath over the line, wheezing in fact.

“I Googled it!” Jihoon protests furiously, because if he doesn't say  _something_  it seems likely that Seungcheol could keep at this all night, “ _Mon petit chou_ means _my little cabbage_ in French!”

The laughter just gets louder.

“Oh, god—” Seungcheol proclaims, reappearing and clearly still fending off giggles. “That’s much cuter than the original meaning. I think I’m gonna have to go with that nickname for you from now on.”

Jihoon glares at the phone in a mixture of anger and confusion.

“If it doesn’t mean _my little cabbage_ , then what _does_ it mean?” He huffs.

He can still hear Seungcheol laughing, but it’s more controlled now as he speaks, “Chou does mean cabbage, so I can see why Google got it wrong. But in French, the literal translation of Mon petit chou means, _my little cream puff.”_

“Little cream puff?” Jihoon echoes incredulously.

“ ** _My_** —little cream puff.” Seungcheol corrects.

“That’s it! I’m not talking to you anymore!” Jihoon says sternly, belatedly realizing that he’s apparently regressed to preschool age.

“As you wish.” Seungcheol sighs, voice serious again. “Goodnight, _my little cabbage_.” He coos, _actually fucking coos._

Jihoon’s sorely tempted to end the call by hurling the phone against the wall. Or maybe shooting it to pieces. But despite the anger, the patronising tone and abject humiliation—butterflies are fluttering wildly in his stomach.

“Goodnight.” He says, in as peeved a voice as he can manufacture at the moment, before hanging up.

Ducking down to grab his towel off the floor, Jihoon’s mortified to find himself hard.

He’s undeniably aroused over a phone call—with his _boss_ , even though it isn't the time or the place for it, and it definitely isn't the guy he should be considering in anything but objective, professional terms.

It would be incredibly vulgar, not to mention unprofessional to even think about masturbating right now. He should just jump in the shower, _a cold shower_ , douse his unruly libido and forget the phone call ever happened.

Yes. Good idea.

Except, you know what— _fuck it_.

Work hard, play hard.

Grabbing the lube from the nightstand, Jihoon drops down on the bed, slicks his fingers up and works two into himself. It’s been a while since he’s had time to do this, so the first few minutes is mostly just him, flat on his back, wriggling his hips around like an idiot trying to stretch himself open to find the right spot that—

_“Ah!”_

_Yeah_. That’s it.

Jihoon twists his fingers, the tips of them catching against a spot inside him that has him keening and trying to thrust himself down, trying to take the digits deeper.

Three fingers deep and his brain immediately supplies a quick and dirty slideshow of everything he desires in a man: broad shoulders, strong arms, a jaw-achingly huge cock he can lick and tease and suck. And of course, it’s Seungcheol he’s picturing—with the lulling cadence of his accent, slicked back hair and penchant for trousers that cling to his ass like cellophane. 

Jihoon is so fucked. And not in the way he wants to be.

* * *

The line goes dead and Seungcheol goes back to considering the view outside his office window, sighing wistfully. He shifts to drop his phone on the desk, then pauses when he realises there's an unmistakable bulge in his pants and  _fuck_ , Seungcheol apparently has a new turn on he knew nothing about: angry Mr Lee, how about that.

He sits up properly and stretches, shaking off muscle stiffness and the haze of inappropriate desire with the ease of many years of practice. It would be very gauche indeed to masturbate in his office to thoughts of Mr Lee, laid out underneath him, wet and naked and….

“Fuck it.” He decides, unzipping his pants.

He jerks himself off thinking of the smell of Mr Lee’s skin, his pretty hands, the confident tilt of his jaw, the imagined heat and weight of him in Seungcheol’s arms. Seungcheol wonders what he sounds like when he begs, when he demands _more_  and  _harder_  and  _again_ , when he’s naked and shaking like he’s about to fly apart.

Does he spit curses like a docker? Does his voice go high and breathy and kittenish?

He dearly wants to know.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Again, I am sorry it's taken so long to update this. But I'm not shelving it, I just have so many other fics to update as well.  
> 2) If you've read my other fics, you know Cheol always gives Jihoon nicknames and usually food related ones :D And I couldn't resist the image of him being massively pissed off about my little cream puff/cabbage.  
> 3) I know the plots a little slow with respect to some ships, but every ship will get their moment, I promise. Even if it takes me forever to get there :)
> 
> 4) Hope you enjoyed the update! Thank you for reading and feedback, as always, is very much appreciated.


	10. The world was on fire and no one could save but you

When Minghao makes it back to Junhui’s place, the sun is nothing but a few lazy strands of red lingering over the horizon.

Although Junhui’s interview had been scheduled before his, there’s no sign of him having returned there. Minghao barely has time to start worrying about that, before he finds out the reason for Junhui’s delay.

Junhui storms in ten minutes after he does, slamming the door shut behind him and cursing beneath his breath. Minghao catches the words ‘pint-sized’ and ‘smart-ass’ as Junhui paces the room like a caged tiger, yanking off the jacket of his suit and tossing it on the couch. He looks as though he’d very much like a cigarette, or five.

“Going to share with the class?” Minghao asks, bemused.

Junhui stops in his tracks, only then seeming to notice Minghao sitting there. He scowls.

“I didn’t get it!”

“Didn’t get w – ” Minghao begins to ask, before it hits him. He pales, swallowing hard. “The job?”

“Yes.” Jun grits out. He paces the small room, trying to rein in his temper. “ _Fuck_. I fucked it up. I fucked up the interview. I was too cocky. _Fuck_ —I knew I shouldn’t have worn a new suit.”

Minghao scrambles to keep up with the conversation, “I don’t get it. They told you there and then you wouldn’t be getting it? They told _me_ they’d be in contact in the next few days, but I was a sure thing. The interview was _easy_.”

“No—no, it wasn’t.” Junhui interrupts a bit snidely.

He moves over to the kitchen but doesn’t sit, he takes a position against one of the side walls, keeping both Minghao and the door in his line of sight. “I had some _asshole_ sitting in on it—asking me weird questions. He picked up on the fact that my suit was new and wanted to know how I could _afford_ it. Asked me why I wanted to work for Choi Seungcheol. It was like that pint-sized fucker was psychologically screening me or some shit. He saw right through me!”

Minghao frowns, thinking back to his own interview. “I had someone sitting in on my interview too, but he didn’t really _say_ anything. He just sat in the corner, yawning, looking at his phone.”

“Good. I’m glad you didn’t have to face mini _Stalin_.” Junhui says. He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes. He looks tired, and worried, and all kinds of afraid. 

“Junhui—it’s _okay_. So you didn’t get the job; there was always a chance one of us wouldn’t. We can still pull this off.” Minghao says, trying to encourage him.

Junhui’s face goes through some sort of complicated internal fight. “ _How_? We needed eyes on the casino floor to pull this off. Even if you get a position in the hotel, we’ll be blind to everything else happening. I needed to land that job—I _needed_ \--”

“Hey—hey, stop.” Minghao interjects, closing the space between them. He grips Junhui’s shoulder tightly, jolting him out of his distracted self-flagellating headspace.“Stop kicking yourself over this. We’ll figure something else out.”

Junhui stares at him for a beat, uncertain, and after a few seconds the stiffness in his posture fades. “Sorry. It’s just—nobody’s ever sussed me out that quickly before. I was sure I had this in the bag, but I guess my skills are a little rusty.” He says, a self-deprecating smile twisting his features.

Minghao smiles warmly at him.  

“Shit happens, okay. We knew there would be a few hurdles to this job, and this is one of them.” He says, already unknotting Junhui’s tie. “You yourself said stealing from Choi Seungcheol wouldn’t be easy, but that’s what contingency plans are for, right?”

“ _Right_.” The light of excitement instantly rekindles in Junhui's eyes, and he says, “We need to brush up on your card dealing skills. If you’re good enough, you could ask for a transfer and—”

“Not now.” Minghao says, reaching up with one hand to press silencing fingers to Junhui's lips

Junhui frowns, “But—”

“I said, not now.” Minghao assures, tugging the tie loose from around his neck and tossing it carelessly aside.

The exasperation melts from Junhui's face as he leans closer. His eyes drift shut at the tentative press of Minghao's lips, and Minghao’s hands slide higher, palms pressing flat against Junhui's chest before sliding into his hair.

Junhui's hands settle at his hips—almost like an afterthought—and when one of them slides to the small of Minghao's back, Minghao makes a pleased sound low in his throat and pulls back.

“Come. Give me a tour of your bedroom.” He whispers, letting an inviting smile curl at one side of his mouth. He grabs Junhui by the buckle of his belt and tugs him backward towards the bedroom until his intentions are unmistakable.

“Oh—okay then,” Junhui grins back, dimples and bright eyes, no trace of the fear and worry that brought him here.

* * *

Seungcheol has spent half the day _not_ revising the financial arrangements for his meeting later, but instead drawing up a strategic plan for Operation: _Woo Mr Lee._

Needless to say, the brainstorming got off to something of a bumpy start.

Seungcheol sat there for who knew how long twirling his pen in his hand, staring at a blank piece of paper. He wasn't much of a wooer by nature, more of a let-them-come-to-you kind of guy. Even then, he rarely saw it coming. His line of work exposes him to few real human connections, fewer still true friendships and practically zero romantic prospects, so trying to figure out how to actively pursue someone ‘in the business’ makes him feel like a fumbling teenager.

Finally, though, he does come up with some ideas, borrowing heavily from movies and the kinds of things his old boyfriends used to hint around that they'd like.

It’s still a little mind boggling that he’s even attempting to pursue his new head of security.

He recognizes that Mr Lee is an attractive man; he’s got eyes, after all, and Mr Lee is really quite shameless with the way he struts about in those ass-hugging pants. But there _are_ a great many attractive people in the world, and most of them don’t work for him, haven’t tried to steal from him, and perhaps more importantly, most of them haven’t the ability or inclination to garrotte their unsatisfactory lovers with a length of dental floss.

Not that Seungcheol has ever –  _ever_  – been an unsatisfactory lover. Seungcheol fucks like a god, even when concussed or under the influence of prodigious quantities of  _Soju_. But Mr Lee seems the sort to detract points for the kind of filthy, rude moments that make sex worth having: spit dribbling down cocks, come smeared into coarse hair, lube sliding slick and messy down finger-bruised thighs –

Okay, that's more than enough of _that_ train of thought.

So, yeah, Seungcheol’s a little surprised that he wants a man that’s scowls like he’s taking part in a competition and is already in a committed relationship with the stick up his ass, when he could have any number of charming, sweet-tempered things who’ll warm his bed without setting it on fire afterward.

But the heart wants what it wants.

It also doesn't help that Mr Lee is funny, clever, and adorably prickly. Seungcheol is sure he isn't the first man in the world who's felt this way about him, but it is the first time he has felt this way about anyone since he can remember.

Unfortunately, when Mr Lee is around, Seungcheol find himself behaving like an utter cock.

“Have you got any plans for tonight?” He begins smoothly, flashing his best entirely seductive smirk.

It stretches into an outright psychotic _leer_ the longer he stares, so it’s a good thing he’s practicing in the bathroom mirror before he actually goes through with it.

He schools his expression and tries again.

“We should have dinner tonight. I know a place.”

He manages to keep his flirty smile in place, but the words just don’t sound right. It sounds like he’s not giving Mr Lee an option here, and Mr Lee _should_ have a choice as to whether he wants to spend time with him or not.

Clearing his throat, he tries again.

“I was just about to head out for dinner. Would you like to join me?”

That doesn’t sound right either.

He’s implying that the offer is a last-minute arrangement, and if Mr Lee declines it would be of no consequence to him. He _wants_ Mr Lee to join him for dinner—not turn him down because he sounds offhand and has better things to do. 

“What do you think of French cuisine?”

That’s no good. It’s less of an invite and more of a question that hangs, awkwardly, forcing Mr Lee to have some sort of opinion on French food.  Seungcheol might as well be asking him about the weather or the cut of his suit.

“Have you ever been to STAY at the Signiel Hotel? There’s an view is incredible and the tasting menu is divine. They make salmon tartare in sesame cornets with crème fraîche that look like ice cream cones. Utterly whimsical and brilliant. You’ll love it.”

Is that perhaps too pretentious? _Maybe_.

It won’t do if he’s trying to dial _down_ the affectatious side of his image. He reminds himself that Mr Lee isn’t the kind of guy that appreciates gastronomic genius—he’s the kind of guy that got excited about the ice dispenser in his limousine and the candied almonds on his desk.

“I have a few things I’d like to discuss with you—let’s do it over dinner.”

That’s a hard no. He doesn’t want to make this about work. This is about developing a relationship _away_ from all the formality and pressure.

Maybe he should just keep it simple.

“You and me? Dinner? Tonight?” He tries, smiling at the mirror.

Okay, that’s definitely _too_ simple, _and_ indecisive. He should probably stop making every part of that sentence seem like a question, so he doesn’t sound like he’s having an existential crisis about dinner.

“You and me. Dinner—tonight.” He says, tightly.

Wow. Now it sounds like a _threat_.

He actually sounds like he’s threatening Mr Lee with the promise of fine dining. Not the image he wants to maintain around the guy.

“You, me—dinner tonight. Whaddya say?”

Seungcheol can't decide if that sounds too casual or too confident. He doesn't want to give Mr Lee the impression that he’s cocksure about his offer. He’s also straining to keep his smile from breaking into what he imagines will be a grin too villainous for Mr Lee to process as actual goodwill.

“I’d really like to take you out for dinner tonight. Please say you’ll join me.”

Seungcheol frowns at his reflection in the mirror, because that sounded too desperate and pleading and there’s far too much truth in that. Just using _please_ in the sentence feels like weakness, like he’s giving too much away.

“Do you like food? Because I know where we can get some.”

Now that just sounds fucking stupid. Could he sound any more like a sixteen-year-old if he tried?

Puffing out a frustrated breath, he tries again.

“I would really like it if you would join me for dinner. Would _you_ like to?”

Fantastic. He just hit the awkward and desperate jackpot with that one.

Nope. Try again.

“Just looking at you makes me hungry, but since I can’t eat _you_ —”

No, no, no. That won’t do it all. And that damned _leer_ has resurfaced. Mr Lee would most likely kick him square in the balls the second that slipped out of his mouth.

“How do you feel about having dinner with me tonight?”

That still sounds wrong.

Is it possible he’s actually getting worse at this? Sounds like it.

“Why is this so hard?” Seungcheol groans out loud, slumping against the sink.

“Uh—boss?” Comes a voice Seungcheol is not expecting. He startles, raising his eyes with a jerk, and sees Soonyoung's head poking around the door. “Is everything okay?” He whispers, obviously alarmed by the sight of Seungcheol with his eyes closed, forehead pressed against the mirror.

Seungcheol’s hands turn white where he’s clenched them into fists against the porcelain, “What is it?”

It takes him a beat to realize how rude that sounds, and he tries again. “I’m fine Soonyoung. Just finding new and creative ways to embarrass myself. What do you need me for?” 

Soonyoung steps into the bathroom, but his movements are hesitant. “Kim Namjoon’s just arrived. He says he has a meeting with you?”

Seungcheol nods and turns back to the mirror to fix his tie. “Alright. I’ll be out in a sec.”

* * *

Mingyu sits idling by the curb for a while, listening to the muffled rumble of the engine. The warm night air blows in through the open car window, carrying with it all the reek of the city: trash and exhaust, the sweat of millions, the rich oil of seasoned meat with the bite of garlic.

There’s an envelope in the passenger seat, sitting unopened; Lee Jihoon’s entire life mapped out in a few sheets of paper. He debates about bringing it inside with him, then decides against it. Seungcheol should _probably_ be the first one to read it.

Stubbing out his cigarette, he kills the engine and steps out of the car.

The restaurant is dimly lit, with about two dozen tables, plus a few booths lining the wall opposite the Teppan. The place is busy even at this late hour, which is why Mingyu likes it for these clandestine meetings. 

Glancing around, he sees Soonyoung and Seungkwan have already arrived, and have commandeered a private table in the corner.

“Sorry I’m late. Had a few things I needed to take care of.” Mingyu says as he approaches.

There’s a bottle of Sake already between them on the table, the sweet, milky white unfiltered brand that Mingyu had rather acquired a taste for, and he pours himself a glass before he even takes his seat.

“You look like shit Gyu.” Seungkwan says, giving him a quick once over.

“Yeah, I was just about to say.” Soonyoung grins, doing the same. “Don’t you have people to do the dirty work for you these days?”

Mingyu glances down at himself—the wrinkled dress shirt, dark with sweat stains, pants caked with dirt and dust nearly from the knee down. He knows his hair hangs lank and unwashed. It isn't a pretty sight in the least. He rubs a hand across his forehead and laughs, grabbing a glass and draining half in a heady gulp.

“This is what a day’s hard work looks like fellas. Not that you would know of course,” He answers.

Soonyoung exchanges a quick, unimpressed look with Seungkwan.

Mingyu slides into his seat just as the waiter arrives. He lets Seungkwan order for them, instead focusing on selecting a pair of chopsticks from the plastic container on the table and pouring some soy sauce into the corner of the open tray.

This is how it goes: once every few weeks, they arrange to meet in a bar or grab a bite to eat together. They have a round of drinks, or a few rounds, and they talk about work. They don’t usually have much to say to each other outside the usual workplace bitching about the boss; Seungkwan’s too protective of his personal life to make idle chit chat, and Mingyu doesn’t really share any of Soonyoung’s outside interests. But it helps, somewhat, to have a familiar face and a sympathetic ear around when Seungcheol goes even more off the rails and off the grid.

Of course, Mingyu has a particular topic in mind for tonight.

“So—” He tries, halfway through the second drink, “whaddya guys make of Mr Lee?”

Seungkwan and Soonyoung exchange another glance. There is hesitance there, and uncertainty.  

“Oh, so _that’s_ why you arranged this meeting. We were wondering when you’d bring him up.”

Mingyu narrows his eyes, in his best  _stop fucking around_  stare, hoping to convey every ounce of his displeasure, “Just answer the question.”

Soonyoung makes a non-committal noise, “He’s alright, I guess. A bit bossy, but I suppose that comes with the territory,” He shrugs affably, “I haven’t really interacted with him much to really pick up on anything else. What about you Boo?”

Seungkwan exhales slowly and swirls his drink in its tumbler, sets it down. “I like him. He’s smart, capable, to the point but not in your face. I think he’s still adjusting to the way we do things, but whatever suggestions he’s made so far seem reasonable.”

A momentary twinge of frustration sparks, sharp and quick in Mingyu's chest, at realizing he’s alone in his distrust of the illusive Mr Lee.

“Well, I don’t like him.” He announces.

Seungkwan obviously smothers a laugh, “Of course, _you’d_ say that; he took your job.”

“He did _not_ take my job.” Mingyu says incredulously. “I’ll have you know I got promoted.”

Seungkwan hums something non-committal. “Remember Jin-woo? Seungcheol’s intel guy with the lazy eye?” He asks, apropos to nothing.

The question is honestly curious, but Mingyu senses some kind of deeper reason.

“ _Yeah_ —what about him?”

“Jin-Woo?” Soonyoung interrupts, looking between the two of them, brow furrowed. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“That’s because he was around before your time. He got promoted too—right into an early grave.” Seungkwan explains, his expression oddly intent. Intent on _Mingyu_.

Mingyu shoots him a withering look in response, “It’s not like that. I _actually_ got promoted. Seungcheol’s entrusted me with a big job.”

“Is that so? Care to share the details?” Seungkwan asks.

Mingyu leans back in the chair, props his arms up on the rests. “I can’t say. It’s top secret.”

Seungkwan snorts, taking a sip of his own drink, “That’s what Jin-Woo said too, right before he zip-tied his wrists to the steering wheel and reversed his car into a lake.”

Soonyoung’s mouth makes a little ‘O’ of understanding, then he gestures at Mingyu. “What’s that got to do with Gyu though?”

“What Seungkwan is implying is that I’ve lost favour with Seungcheol, and he’s going to fire me much in the same way he did with Jin-Woo.”

“Oh, shit—” Soonyoung begins, and Mingyu cuts him off with a look.

“But that’s _not_ what’s happening, okay.” He insists. He lets determination darken his voice and doesn't give Seungkwan a chance to interrupt. “Jin-Woo fucked up big time, he had it coming. And whether you want to believe it or not, Seungcheol _has_ entrusted me with an important job. I was working on it before I came here.”

Seungkwan gives him his best look of surprise. “Fine then, you’ve got a fancy new promotion, _congratulations_. Now tell me, what’s your beef with Mr Lee?”

“I don’t _have_ beef with him. I’ve just learned a thing or two about him that makes me doubt his capabilities.” Mingyu says, spinning his finger around the rim of his glass.

Judging by Seungkwan’s shark-like gaze, he already suspects there’s more to it than that. He knows Mingyu too well is the problem. 

“It is pretty weird about how he just _joined_ our crew.” Soonyoung pipes up then, glancing between them. “I mean, one day he’s trying to steal from us, the next he’s taking over as head of security? Even you have to admit it’s kind of weird Boo.”

Seungkwan shakes his head, “I don’t think it’s weird at all. Seungcheol has always been a little unorthodox with his recruitment strategy. You of all people should know that _Gyu_ ; didn’t he recruit you after you tried to steal his Rolex? How is that any different with how he recruited Mr Lee?”

He sounds a little like he’s mocking Mingyu, but that’s nothing unusual. By now, Mingyu is ninety per cent sure that Seungkwan holds a certain amount of genuine respect for Mingyu's opinions, which makes his baiting easier to ignore.

Mingyu attempts to stave off any further contradictions with a firm shake of his head. “That was different. I was young, naïve—mouldable. I impressed him and he saw potential.”

“Mr Lee impressed him too.” Seungkwan interrupts, and there's a drollness to his tone. “He sees plenty of potential….just in a _different_ way.”

It’s Mingyu and Soonyoung’s turn to exchange a perplexed look.

“Oh c’mon. Don’t you guys see it?” Seungkwan says, his voice low and a little incredulous. “The boss is _infatuated_ with him.”

Mingyu wrinkles his nose.

It’s not that he disagrees with Seungkwan’s assessment—he knows it's true, even if he wishes it were otherwise. He’s just surprised someone else picked up on their dynamic. There _is_ something between Seungcheol and Jihoon, some unspoken message conveyed through look and scowls and body language alone, a dialect Mingyu hasn’t yet been able to translate.

“What makes you say that?” He asks anyway.

Seungkwan's smile is edged and mysterious. “Cause I’ve _seen_ them together. There’s flirting, _chemistry_ —cute little French nicknames and smiles when they don’t think anyone’s paying attention. The boss is different when he’s around him too; like genuinely happy in a jittery, nervous way. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so self-conscious before.”

“It’s true—he is.” Soonyoung grins, eyes dancing. “Just today I overheard him practicing how he’ll ask someone out to dinner in the bathroom, and he was fumbling over his words like a love-sick teenager.”  

Seungkwan snorts—then palpably stiffens. “Wait. Do you think he was practicing to ask _Mr Lee_ out?”

"What?" Mingyu has officially lost his grip on the conversation.

“Oh my god—I didn’t even consider that!” Soonyoung blurts out, caught somewhere between wonder and horror. He’s even got a hand held over his mouth, like he’s a millisecond away from squeeing over the whole damn thing.

Mingyu stares long sufferingly at the ceiling, wondering when God changed the channel of his life from _The Sopranos_ to an episode of _Gossip Girl._ Last time he checked, he was pretty sure they all had testicles. And _guns_.

“I can’t believe the boss and Mr Lee are dating.” Soonyoung sighs wistfully.

 _“They’re not dating.”_ Mingyu grits out.

Seungkwan waves a hand impatiently to shush him, “Well, maybe not dating exactly. But they’re one candle lit dinner away from boning each other at least.”

Mingyu lets out a frustrated breath and resists the urge to bang his head against the wall. Morons. 

 _Morons_ the pair of them.

“Seungcheol would feel differently if he knew what _I_ knew about him.” He grumbles under his breath.

Seungkwan’s on the cusp of saying something, but he must catch Mingyu’s words because he snaps his mouth shut and turns on him with eyebrows arched high. “What can _you_ possibly know about Mr Lee that the Boss doesn’t?”

Mingyu purses his lips, rotates his glass on the table. He doesn’t have the proof yet to articulate his exact reasons, so he just says, “I just know he has a pretty unsavoury past.”

“Don’t we all?” Seungkwan says, a declarative statement, gaze pinned to Mingyu’s face. 

Mingyu picks up his glass and tosses back the remainder of its contents. “Not like this. This is pretty defamatory stuff. Too many scratches for a paintjob to erase, if you know what I mean.”

Seungkwan heaves a sigh, extra theatrical for everyone’s benefit. He doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s clearly a near thing.

“Listen, Gyu—we’ve known each other for years. I like you, really, so take my advice when I say—tread carefully. If you do know something about Mr Lee the Boss won’t like to hear, telling him might not work in your favour. He might resent you for it more than anything.”

“What’s that su—” Mingyu breaks off suddenly, looking at Soonyoung with suspicion. Soonyoung who’s suddenly seen fit to duck behind a spare menu, like he’s hiding from something. “What are you doing?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” Soonyoung squeaks. “Just checking out the Menu.”

Seungkwan tries to pry the menu out of his hand and gets kicked under the table for his efforts, “But—we already _ordered_ Soonie.”

Soonyoung lifts his head to glare out over the top of his menu briefly, before ducking again, “Yeah, well—I’m having second doubts about the dishes you chose, okay, leave me alone.” He hisses that last part out like he's afraid someone will overhear.

Mingyu turns to glance in the direction Soonyoung was glaring, but the waiter chooses that moment to arrive with their dishes.

Just as well; he’s too famished to dissect the oddities of Soonyoung’s behaviour now, even if Soonyoung does look like he’s one second away from stabbing someone with his chopsticks.

* * *

24 hours is long enough to stay cooped up in the safehouse.

Any longer and Wonwoo is going to start carving messages into the walls, possibly in his own blood. Or maybe he could use Seokmin’s blood instead, because they’ve spent all day together and Seokmin’s still toting his gun around in plain sight and giving Wonwoo the shifty eyes like he thinks Wonwoo might suffocate him with a pillow if he naps on the couch or something.

Which, _honestly_ —is becoming more tempting by the minute.

“That’s it.” Wonwoo finally announces, sometime around 7:30pm. He stands from his chair and stretches his tired shoulders. “I can’t spend another minute here waiting. I’m going out.”

“Where?” Seokmin asks, looking up from his perch near the window where he’s spent the day picking through a two-year-old newspaper and cleaning his gun.

“I don’t care.” Wonwoo huffs, swiping his jacket off the couch. He steps over to look out the window while he shrugs it on. “Any where’s better than sitting here watching you _pace_. I’m hungry—maybe I’ll grab us something to eat on the way back.”

Seokmin regards the side of Wonwoo’s face for a moment, and then he nods, approving of the suggestion.

“I’ll come with you.”

Wonwoo scoffs, “What? You don’t trust me to go grab food alone now? Think I’ll poison it or something?”

“Maybe I’d like a walk outside too.” Seokmin argues. He shrugs then, casual and unperturbed. “And yeah—frankly, you haven’t really done much to earn my trust as of late, so I’d like to keep an eye on you.”

Wonwoo’s lips tighten in frustration.

He considers saying no. He considers telling Seokmin to fuck right off, he wants some time alone right now. He even considers making a break for it, though he's reasonably sure Seokmin would intercept him before he got anywhere near the door.

But all those choices would only make things worse between them, and so Wonwoo just shakes his head and takes a moment to gather his unhappy thoughts into a marginally more coherent order. “You know what— _fine_. Let’s go. I know a place.”

Wonwoo leads them to a Japanese Teppanyaki place he often visits, located deep in Gangnam-gu’s labyrinthine sprawl. It’s late in the dinner service, but there is an empty booth near the back, so they seat themselves and start flipping through the menu. 

“You decided yet?” Seokmin asks him, when the waiter stops by their table.

“Yeah—” Wonwoo nods, looking away across the crowded room. He freezes to mortified stone a second later as his gaze travels to where a group of three men are seated.

Two of the men he doesn’t recognize, but the third….

_Fuck._

Their table is just at the right angle for Wonwoo to see the side of the third man’s face, but not make direct eye contact. And thank fuck for that—because he’s almost 100% certain it’s Mingyu.

Kim fucking _Mingyu_ , here, having dinner with some of his murderous associates.

_Of all the barstools in all of Seoul…._

Wonwoo ducks his head behind his menu, hunching his shoulders. “Uh—I mean no. I’d like to have another look. Can you give us a moment please?”

The waiter looks briefly puzzled by his reaction, but thankfully nods and steps away.

Seokmin casts him a sharp look, catching the sudden tension in his shoulders. “Wonu? What’s up?”

“Just—so many choices. I can’t decide what I want to eat.” Wonwoo says, a little more defensively than he means to.

Are his cheeks hot? The feel hot. Must just be the steamy-warm atmosphere in the restaurant. Or maybe it’s his pulse running chaos beneath his skin. It's a good thing he's handy at slipping into crisis mode. Otherwise, he'd be _useless_ right now.

Seokmin stares out across the restaurant for a second, considering, “Nah—that’s not it. You’re acting weird. You seem _scared_.”

Wonwoo waves an easy hand even as his heart skips a couple of terrified beats. “I am scared, scared by the vast array of choices on the menu. That’s never a good sign you know, when they have _too_ many options. That usually means the cook everything first, then just re-heat it when someone orders. We’re liable to get food poisoning here—we should leave.”

Seokmin stares at him disbelievingly. “ _What_? Didn’t you say you’ve eaten here before”

Wonwoo finally chances a glance up from his menu, finds Mingyu otherwise clueless to his presence, too occupied chatting with his colleagues. Leaving now means walking right past their table, risks getting their attention even more than waiting him out. He finds if he leans a little to the left, the view is mostly obstructed by the Washi partition surrounding their booth, so he scoots over and clears his throat.

“Okay, I guess we’ll stay.” Wonwoo says, in a voice that doesn’t quite achieve casualness.

Seokmin raises an eyebrow, but the tense set of his shoulders relax, just a fraction. “Good. Cause you’re paying. I forgot my wallet.”

* * *

Seungcheol’s meeting with Namjoon trails on for longer than he expects, so it’s late evening by the time he arrives back at his penthouse to change. He dons a fresh suit, spritzes a tasteful amount of cologne and checks his watch.

7.30pm. Still time, he thinks, and quickly fumbles for his cell phone.

It's not until Mr Lee answers that Seungcheol realizes he still doesn't know what he’s going to say. He dialled the number without even thinking — enthusiasm overriding logic. So he says the first thing that comes to mind, which is a horribly awkward mish mash of everything he’d been practicing earlier.

"Have you eaten yet? Cause I know a place if you haven’t and I thought we could have dinner together if you’re free. And Hungry. Also, I need to discuss something with you about work."

He hates himself a bit for how pathetically helpless he sounds.

There’s a weighty pause over the line.

"Uh—I’m at home already," Mr Lee finally says.

Seungcheol can hear him move around. There's a shaking noise like the sound of cereal pouring into a bowl.

 _Dammit_.

"Oh. Never mind then," Seungcheol says, smoothing down his disappointment and the sandpaper roughness out of his voice, "If you're already settled in, forget it. Another time per--"

"You could come over,” Mr Lee interjects too casually.

Seungcheol can’t convey his puzzlement effectively over the phone, so he pulls it away from his ear and makes a face at it. The screen _says_ ‘Mr Lee’ so he knows he definitely dialled the right number.

"What?" He asks, bringing the phone back to his ear.

There’s a brief hesitation, then Mr Lee breathes out a short laugh. "I said—you could come over _Mr Choi."_

 _Well….damn_ , Seungcheol thinks, stunned by Mr Lee’s rather casual invitation. His heart is beating double-time, which is just plain silly.

He thinks about the reservation he made, the entire top floor of the exclusive restaurant he booked so they could be alone together, and then his disbelief morphs into delight.

"I’ll be there in twenty minutes," is what he says, making some effort not to sound obnoxiously triumphant.

Ironically, Mr Lee lives within wailing distance of a Police station, in a flat overlooking a 7-Eleven. There’s pigeon shit on the pavement, and pigeon shit on the buildings, and a disturbing lack of pigeons near the ‘Yum-Yum Chicken’ food cart parked by the corner. It's a lot less upscale than Seungcheol had expected, and Seungcheol wasn't even _expecting_ upscale — he knows full well that sophistication in their business is a cultivated image, and he's once seen Mr Lee eat tuna straight from the tin.

He parks at the entrance of the building, then spends a moment watching the group of shifty-eyed teens loitering on the sidewalk. They seem to be eyeballing the car, and it occurs to him then that he probably should have picked something a little less flashy then an Aston Martin Vulcan. Although, on second thought—it’s possible that he doesn’t _own_ anything less flashy then a Aston Martin Vulcan. Oh well, it’s too late now.

He heads inside and climbs the stairs, then hesitating for only a moment, knocks on Mr Lee's door.

Mr Lee comes to answer it, holding a bowl of cereal.

"Oh good, I was beginning to think you got lost," he says, as if that could be the only reason why Seungcheol took so long. Like it never occurred to him to think Seungcheol might have been assaulted by a flock of pigeons outside.

Seungcheol opens his mouth to reply, but he finds the words disappearing from his mind as his gaze travels down Mr Lee’s body to the pair of shorts he’s wearing. Oh, and not just _any_ shorts—the tiniest pair of shorts he’s ever seen.

They’re a dark blue denim wash, slightly frayed at the edges and cutting high across the thighs.

Indecently high, actually.

They’d probably be classified as a fucking _belt_ if there were an inch shorter.

He must say something to this effect, because Mr Lee narrows his eyes at him and says, “Yeah, so? I always wear shorts when I’m lounging about. Or were you expecting me to wear a suit for this auspicious occasion?”

“No, no. I like the shorts. They’re very—" Seungcheol trails off, struggling somewhat to offer anything in the way of an intelligent reply with his mind bombarded by the sight of Mr Lee’s milky smooth skin.

God… _those legs._ Is it just his imagination or do they actually go on for days? They must do, because his gaze has been travelling up them for an incriminatingly long length of time and they don’t seem to want to stop.

Fuck, they’re so slim and smooth, and ….

He thinks he finally understands all those tiresome poetic comparisons to milk.

“—Very short.” Seungcheol finally finishes.  

 _Yeah, that’s real Smooth Choi_ , he thinks, annoyed with himself. He's usually more suave than this. Really, he is.

Mr Lee clears his throat pointedly, looking at Seungcheol now from under a lock of hair. He’s caught Seungcheol’s lingering glance and his gaze is two-parts curiosity and one-part  _fuck off_.

Seungcheol should probably stop staring at his legs. Probably should stop staring all together, though he can’t seem to manage it. He doesn’t know where to look really. He certainly can’t stand here all day admiring Mr Lee’s pins, and he can’t quite look at his face either—serene, with the hair framing it loose and free. He drops his gaze instead, and now his mind is reeling over the sight of Mr Lee’s bare feet.

They’re the tiniest feet Seungcheol’s ever seen on a grown man.

“Your feet are so _small_.” He says, because that's a thought his brain had decided to share out loud.

“Well I _am_ a small guy.” Mr Lee replies, a touch of amusement colouring his voice.

Seungcheol nods agreeably, “That you are. Very small. The _smallest_.”

Mr Lee makes a face like he doesn’t appreciate Seungcheol using that word, or it’s many variations, even though he happily used it himself.

"Will you step inside before someone tries to mug you." He huffs, holding the door open and all but dragging Seungcheol inside.

“Where’d you park?” He asks, leading Seungcheol down the narrow hallway.

“Just downstairs, at the entrance.” Seungcheol replies, trying not to stare at the indecent cut of Mr Lee’s shorts, the soft crease of skin behind his knees. God— _his legs._

“Let’s hope your car still has wheels later.” Mr Lee snarks.

“It _is_ fitted with a security alarm.” Seungcheol says pointedly.

Mr Lee snorts, turning to smile at him over his shoulder, “It’s cute that you think that’s a deterrent around here. I use the secure garage down the block myself.”

“I have other cars.” Seungcheol murmurs absently as he gazes around the apartment, any lingering concern for his possessions vanished the moment he set eyes on Mr Lee. And his legs.

It’s a homey apartment, with neatly matching furniture and expansive bookshelves and skylights everywhere one might decide to put a skylight. Seungcheol’s first instinct is to head straight for the photographs; if there are horribly embarrassing photos of Mr Lee with a mushroom bowl cut or Mr Lee in a first-grade pageant dressed as a tree, he sure as hell wants to know about it. But the apartment is oddly bare of personal touches. There are no photo frames on the walls or propped up on the bookshelves. The sitting room leads into the kitchen, and he sees no magnets or adornments tacked to the fridge. All the tell-tale signs of someone who’s always prepared to have his life disrupted at a moment’s notice; instincts honed from a life of uncertainty.

But it's clean and neat, and that makes Seungcheol feel a lot better, like something is right with the world after all, 2 + 2 still equals 4; Mr Lee wears short shorts and eats cereal for dinner, but he can’t resist organizing his CDs by alphabetical name of artist when he can cross-reference them by date and genre and colour theme instead.

"I don't actually have a lot of groceries," Mr Lee begins apologetically, stepping into the kitchen area, "But I've got like a million types of cereal. You can take your pick.”

He moves over the cupboards and swings them wide open, revealing rows upon rows of cereal boxes, in every colour and brand under the sun. Seungcheol doesn’t think he’s ever seen so much cereal in one place outside a grocery store. Maybe not even _inside_ one.

Mr Lee looks every inch the proud collector too, and maybe he _is_. Some people collect cars, others collect watches, or tattoos or limited-edition M.C Escher prints. Seungcheol’s an art collector himself, so maybe Mr Lee collects cereal?

Maybe it’s a _thing_?

Seungcheol should probably brush up on his cereal knowledge just in case.

“By the look on your face, I’m guessing you haven’t had cereal for dinner before.” Mr Lee suggests, frowning.

“I—” Seungcheol opens and closes his mouth. “It’s never been an option.”

"Figures. I'm sorry I can't entertain you to the style to which you've been _accustomed_.” Mr Lee says, tone as dry as paper.

Seungcheol chuckles, shaking his head. “I like cereal just fine. I just didn’t realise it came in such a wide variety of….. _colours_. I don’t think I’ve never heard of any of these brands.”

Mr Lee stares fondly at his collection.

No, seriously, he actually does that. He stares _fondly_ at his cereal boxes.

“They’re mostly American imports from the international food store downtown. I uhm, may have spent a small fortune on them.” He mumbles—like it's just the latest in a series of bad life choices he's made.

Seungcheol quirks an amused eyebrow at him, “How _much_ of a small fortune?”

Mr Lee ducks his head, suddenly shy. “Ten bucks per box.”

“ _Jesus_ , did you have to remortgage your house?” Seungcheol says dryly.

Mr Lee wrinkles his nose adorably.

“Hey—fuck you. That’s a lot of money to some people.” He snaps, then his furious little expression smudges around the edges into something a little more sheepish; authority to uncertainty in the space of only a few words. “You always talk about living more lavishly, and it’s hard for a guy like me to just go out and spend money on stuff. I’m not used to it. I wanted to spend my money on something I like, and I _like_ cereal.”

Seungcheol bows his head apologetically, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—” He finds his voice hoarse, and he clears his throat before continuing, “It’s a very beautiful collection. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

Mr Lee’s answering grin is pleased, quietly bashful.

His dimples punctuate the expression, and in that moment, there’s a near-boyish sweetness about him. It makes him look suddenly like a much younger man, and Seungcheol has a vision of what that he might have been like as a kid— even impossibly tinier, pestering his mother in the grocery store for a box of his favourite cereal.

Oh god—he probably collected all the surprise toys inside and displayed them on his bookshelf.

Seungcheol’s going to buy him a box of every cereal brand on the planet when this is all over. Honestly, he is.

“Lucky charms are my personal favourite for a midnight snack, but Golden Nuggets are good too, and Fruit Loops are perfect if you’re looking for something a little more substantial.” Mr Lee says, in his best in-flight entertainment voice.

“ _Cap’n Crunch’s—Crunch Berries,”_ Seungcheol reads the label on one box out, laughing to himself.

Who even comes up with these names?

He grabs the box and turns it over in his hands, studying the nutritional information on the back—or _lack_ of nutrition to be more precise. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen so many E numbers on one product before. But _hey_ —it looks like Seungcheol’s going to be getting his weekly allowance of fibre in this one bowl, along with his entire _life_ allowance of artificial preservatives and flavourings.

“Wow, look at the sugar levels in _these_. This stuff is pure sugar, that can’t be healthy for—”

Mr Lee cuts him off with a shifty side-ways look, Seungcheol has no idea how he does that. How he manages to get across 'stop talking' without saying a word.

He quickly hands the box back, before Mr Lee can develop any ideas about kicking him out.

“I’ll have some Cap’n Crunch please.” He mumbles, trying to look appropriately chastised.

“Do you want some Fruity Pebbles to go with that?” Mr Lee asks.

It's Seungcheol’s turn to give him the shifty sideways eyes, because… _Fruity pebbles?_

“What?” He asks, because quite honestly, he’s never been more confused in his life.

“Fruity pebbles,” Mr Lee repeats, as though Seungcheol is the one being slow and Mr Lee is making the slightest hint of sense.

“I don’t—I can’t—I—" Seungcheol stutters.

Mr Lee sighs in that practiced way of long-suffering patience. “It’s another brand of cereal. You can have more than one cereal in your bowl. I like to mix and match lots of different cereals to give me flavour and texture _variety_.”

Seungcheol stares up at the open cupboard, at the literal _wall_ of cereal boxes and their mascots staring back. _Smiling_ back. It’s oddly intimidating.

“Maybe you should just pick for me? I feel like I’m a little out of my element here.”

Mr Lee nods sagely, like he agrees the art of cereal bowl preparation is a very fine skill indeed.

“Don’t worry, I’ll prepare a very special bowl just for you.” He says, like some kind of freakin’ cereal _connoisseur_.

Seungcheol nods, dumbly. He hasn't the first idea what to say in any case.

He takes a seat at the breakfast bar and watches as Mr Lee pulls out a bowl the size of his head, then proceeds to dish out cereal from three different boxes into it. Watching him work, Seungcheol gets the same feeling of captivation he does watching a bartender mix a particularly fiddly cocktail. Except this bartender’s wearing _shorts_ —which is a surprise special bonus Seungcheol’s never going to stop enjoying.

When Mr Lee finishes, he pushes the bowl towards him then takes a seat on the stool opposite and pours them both tall glasses of orange juice.

It’s not the meal Seungcheol had planned; refined, decadent, expensive—but somehow, it’s infinitely better. Mr Lee seems at ease here, in a way he never quite achieves in the grandeur of Seungcheol’s places of choice. The tight line of his back is gone, and he no longer vibrates with such vulnerable intensity. Seungcheol almost misses the sharpness of the Biker Boy he first met. He hurt to watch, but at the same time it was aesthetically pleasing, like a photograph just slightly over-exposed.

“Go on—try it.” Mr Lee urges, gesturing at the bowl. “It’s good.”

"Okay,” Seungcheol says, sceptical. But he grabs his spoon and dunks it into the bowl, spooning a conservative portion into his mouth. There’s a lot of texture going on, a lot of texture. Crunchy, crispy, chewy, doughy— _all_ in one mouthful. He stops chewing long enough to savour the taste, which he finds almost cloyingly sweet. But it’s _good_. Surprisingly good.

Cereal for dinner, who knew.

He finds Mr Lee watching him with an unexpectedly rapt expression when he opens his eyes, and it takes Seungcheol a moment to finish, “I like it.”

Mr Lee smirks impishly around his own mouthful of cereal.

Seungcheol smiles back and takes another spoonful.

He gets distracted just watching Mr Lee for a moment. He's so painfully gorgeous it still has the power to surprise Seungcheol sometimes. Now is one of those times.

 _The heart is a muscle_ , he reminds himself. _Just a muscle._

“So, what did you want to talk about?” Mr Lee asks, chewing.

Seungcheol looks at him, then back down at his cereal bowl. “I may have been a little misleading earlier. I don’t really want to talk about work.”

That draws Mr Lee up short. He pauses with his spoon halfway to his lips, one eyebrow arching high.

“Oh?”

Seungcheol smiles, keeping the charm turned low. He leans in slightly and takes a moment to choose his words, wanting to be truthful without sounding cloying. “We don’t really get much of a chance to talk outside of work, so I figured this could be more of a social call, a chance to get to know you better.”

Mr Lee’s expression suggests exactly what he thinks of this idea, and Seungcheol has to bite back a grin.

“You mean, you haven’t _already_ done a thorough background check on me?” Mr Lee asks.

It's not an idle question. There's a serious look in his eyes, a sombre glint bordering on concern.  

Seungcheol shakes his head firmly, “No, I haven’t. You said I had to _earn_ any information I learned about you, and of course, it’s _tempting_ to do my own groundwork and suss out the details, but I wanted to respect your wishes.”

Mr Lee’s mouth sets in a wry line. “Fair enough.” He agrees reluctantly, and then breathes out, as if they'd been having an argument which Seungcheol had unexpectedly won. “How about this—tit for tat. You tell me something nobody knows about _you_ , and I’ll do the same.”

Seungcheol frowns, not one for introspection when he can avoid it. “I don’t know if I have anything _to_ share. I’m pretty much an open book.” He hedges.

Mr Lee pushes a short laugh out through his nose. “You can’t be serious. You’re Choi Seungcheol, you haven’t gotten where you are without being an infamously well closed book. Most people who know anything about you, only know you through your charitable endeavours and magazine spreads, and I suspect the ones who dig a little deeper only find out things you _want_ them to. I’m not asking for any incriminating shit here, just an equivalent exchange of information. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours sorta thing.”

Seungcheol tilts an eyebrow at him. There’s an unmistakable double entendre there he would like to poke at, but he’ll admit it’s pretty low hanging fruit, even for him.

“Can you be more specific about what you want to know?” He asks instead around another bite of cereal.

Mr Lee seems to give it some thought. He licks a drop of milk off his lips and then says, “Start with your childhood; there’s hardly any information about that floating around.”

Seungcheol feels his stomach drop to his shoes.

He thinks, for an instant, about trying to worm his way out of the conversation. It’s a very brief impulse.

Having built a career on playing his cards close to the chest, he’s made a point of never divulging the sordid details of his family history to anyone, let alone an almost stranger like Mr Lee. The trick is to smile and laugh and have no one see the truth in his eyes or pressed in behind his teeth. But honesty is fluid, Seungcheol knows this. Honesty is tossing new ingredients into an old recipe, it's the smears and striations of a painting left in the rain until there's no trace of the previous image. It's less about revealing his own hand here and more about seeing how Mr Lee reacts because, in this case, honesty is Mr Lee with his guard down, Mr Lee trusting him enough to let him in. If that means sharing what he usually wouldn’t, then so be it.

“Makes sense—” He says, face smoothed into a carefully blank mask. “It was hardly glamourous.”

Mr Lee waves his free hand, “Tell me anyway. I love a rag to riches story.”

“It was _nothing_ like that.” Seungcheol answers, without missing a beat.

Mr Lee stops mid chew, picking up on the thread of irritation in his voice. His eyes dance over Seungcheol’s face cautiously, “What was it like then?”

Seungcheol adjusts his elbows in the table and curves his shoulders inward, suddenly uncomfortable in his own skin.

“My father already had a small gambling empire before I came on the scene, and his business interests took a more profitable but less the prurient turn _after_ I was born. We were never in a financially dire situation.”

He suspects Mr Lee knows this already and is only testing him. Seungcheol can’t begrudge him that, not when he’s testing him right back.

Mr Lee gives him an unreadable look. His eyes narrow as he tries to pull a thought from the back of his mind. “But it _was_ failing. I remember reading that when I was researched you. You resurrected it when you took over, built it to what it is now. That’s still some story.”

Seungcheol scoffs, shaking his head, “That’s a regular exaggeration. It wasn’t failing per se, my father had just succeeded in pissing off every player in the game and nobody wanted to deal with anymore. I was fresh blood at the time, people saw me and thought I would be too dumb and naïve to make a good deal on his behalf, so didn’t see any harm in humouring me for a bit. I took great pleasure in exceeding their expectations.”

Mr Lee tilts his head up with a thoughtful expression, studying Seungcheol’s face with a minute attention to detail. A wistful look crosses his features. “Your father must have been proud.”

“No, he wasn’t,” Seungcheol says without thinking, clenching his jaw too late to censor himself.

Mr Lee’s eyes widen and his eyebrows arch high. “Oh?”

Seungcheol flexes his jaw, trying to ease the tension out enough to speak. He barely manages it.

“My Father was an overly-critical ass, never the sort to waste a kind word when he had a harsh one handy.” He murmurs, swirling his spoon through the milk at the bottom of his bowl. “Nothing I ever did was ever good enough, so I never really tried to please him.”

He glances at Mr Lee askance, waiting for the inevitable pity, the _‘Poor Seungcheol, No wonder you’re so angry all the time. Freud would probably have a field day with you.’_ Yet the man surprises him, merely nodding and sipping at the half-empty glass of orange juice he’s been nursing the entire time they’ve been talking. 

“Parents can be like that though, right? Sometimes they withhold their approval, because they think it’ll encourage their children to work harder.”

Seungcheol swallows and looks down at table beneath his hands, unable to meet Mr Lee’s stare even in the low light.

“Not him.” He takes a deep breath and wooshes it out again. “He blamed me for my mother’s death.”

The words have the effect of silencing all sound in the room. 

Mr Lee stares at him, horrified. “W-what?”

“Complications in childbirth.” Seungcheol explains, with elaborate simplicity. “She had preeclampsia and had been advised by her doctor to abort me, but she uhm—went ahead with the pregnancy anyway. She haemorrhaged during delivery and….they couldn’t save her.”

Mr Lee swallows hard, an agonized flicker of emotion flashing across his face. “That’s not _your_ fault.”

Seungcheol shrugs modestly, dropping the spoon he's holding into his bowl, appetite lost. “He didn’t see it that way. As far as he was concerned, I was the reason she was dead and a constant reminder of what he lost, and he couldn’t stand the sight of me most days.”

“You were a baby for crying out loud!” Mr Lee exclaims, suddenly red faced and exasperated. “Childbirth _is_ complicated, even with the best doctors and modern technology, complications happen.”

“I know that—” Seungcheol tries to say, but Mr Lee just steamrolls right over him, filled with righteous indignation.

“Doesn’t mean you killed her. _Jesus_. What a fucking asshole. I can’t believe he would hold that against you.” He seethes, looking for all the world like he’s five seconds away from desecrating Seungcheol’s father’s _grave_.

Seungcheol grimaces and reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t for a minute believe it was my fault, okay.” He says, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

He sighs heavily and meets Mr Lee’s gaze again. “I _knew_ he was messed up in the head since I was young, I learned to ignore him. It’s not like he beat me or anything. He still made sure I was fed and clothed and educated, we just didn’t have much of a relationship _beyond_ that.”

Mr Lee blanches, and then his faces softens. He looks away, the frustrated anger disappearing, replaced with something wistful and almost sad.

“Emotional neglect is just as bad as physical abuse.” He murmurs.

His eyes seem faded in the low kitchen light, so pale and shrewd and brilliant that it's almost difficult to stare at them when he gets like this, tender. Mr Lee being tender makes Seungcheol uncomfortable, if only because it's not something he's used to yet—and yet is the operative word, because he can imagine a time in the future when he won't be caught off guard by this, when it'll be as right as reloading an empty gun.

“It wasn’t like that. I hardly saw him for most of my childhood. He sent me off to boarding school when I was old enough, and the only reason he pulled me back out was to take over the reins after my brother was killed.”

Mr Lee's expression shifts into something indecipherable, but his gaze still holds Seungcheol trapped. There is tension in those slim shoulders now. A downward flicker at one corner of his mouth.

“I didn’t _know_ you had a brother.”

“Not a lot of people do.” Seungcheol murmurs. He catches his lower lip between his teeth and resists the urge to divert his gaze.

“His name was Seungmin. He was five years older than me, and all set to take over the business at 22 years of age, until he overdosed on methamphetamines and drove his car into a pillar. He was the _perfect son_ , I was often reminded—”

‘ _Unlike you—fa—’_

Seungcheol cuts that memory off before it can take shape.

He’d endured a great deal of hardship from his father for his sexual preferences, but that particular moment had left him with an ache in his gut, a festering wound that he knows will never fully heal.

Silence stretches between them for a few moments, but to Seungcheol it feels like decades.

He flinches at the sudden ‘click’ of Mr Lee’s spoon hitting the bowl, then Mr Lee levers himself up from the kitchen stool and steps over to the fridge to fetch more orange juice; an obvious attempt to distance himself from the conversation.

Seungcheol sighs inwardly.

He doesn’t feel offended, really. Just resigned.

This isn’t part of his grand seduction plan, dredging up old memories from the murky waters of his past that are better left untouched. There’s a reason he doesn’t share this shit—but dammit, now he has and Mr Lee’s studying him with a quiet scientific distance, as though trying to decide whether to broach a difficult subject. Mr Lee's never been  _careful_  of him before, and Seungcheol doesn’t know how to address this strange new terrain. More than anything it makes Seungcheol want to walk across the space between them and put something else in Mr Lee’s eyes. Something like fear and admiration and maybe shock.

Or maybe not.

“Your cereal’s getting soggy.” Seungcheol offers, trying to guide the conversation into something more familiar.

“I _like_ soggy cereal.” Mr Lee replies defensively, retaking his seat.

Seungcheol affects a gag, because that’s just revolting, then has to quickly duck when Mr Lee lobs a spoonful of cereal mush at him. It lands with a wet splat on the tile behind, but a decent portion has splattered on the shoulder of his shirt.

“Real mature.” Seungcheol drawls, flicking the remnants of the milky, rainbow coloured mush off his shoulder. “Now it looks like a psychedelic pigeon shat on my shoulder.”

Mr Lee lets out a lovely sound that is half snort, half giggle, and the tight feeling in Seungcheol’s chest loosens. 

They eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, before Mr Lee deigns to break it.

“My dad was an asshole too." He says, using the back of his spoon to push tiny bits of marshmallow down into the milk.

It’s said easily, without force or defensiveness, like he came to terms with it _years_ ago, but his hand is clenched so tightly around the spoon, it make his knuckles stand out snowy white.

“He walked out on my mom when I was a kid, which was a blessing at first, because he used to beat us all the time. But she loved him, I guess; was so sure he’d come back for us and wasted away waiting for him to.” Mr Lee glances away then, briefly, before looking back. He doesn't seem angry, but he looks tense and uncomfortable.

Seungcheol's stomach turns over.

He tries to imagine what it must have been like. Not that the picture he'd painted in his mind was particularly happy to begin with, but the reality of it clearly weighs unpleasantly on Mr Lee's memories. Seungcheol doesn't know how to help, or even what to say without risking offense. But he can’t resist asking:

“Where’s your mother now?”

Mr Lee sighs quietly, a small unhappy gust of air. Seungcheol hates that sound. He hates how easy it is to hear the jaded hurt running beneath it.

“She died when I was 14 years old, bone cancer. Sometimes when I look back though—I realise she’d been dead inside a lot longer, I was just too young to understand.”

Uncomfortable, Seungcheol hesitates on the verge of saying a number of stupid, meaningless things.

What is _‘I'm sorry,’_ to the man who has lost everything?

“Did you go into foster care?” Seungcheol says the words lightly, smooth enough to mask the undercurrent of sincere concern flowing beneath.

Mr Lee jerks from side to side like a clockwork toy with a broken spring. “For a few months, yeah; a nice older couple with grown up kids who’d already flown the nest. But I just couldn’t make it work. I’d lived in the bad part of town so long I’d already been tainted by it all, so I ran away the first chance I got, went to live with friends I made on the street and tried to make a living--”

Mr Lee hesitates then, an odd anxious look flitting across his face, barely there long enough for Seungcheol to catch it before he stutters back towards the distance he usually keeps.

“Eventually I met my old crew, and I guess the rest is history. I never expected to find myself here of course, working for you.” He finally looks at Seungcheol, and Seungcheol is relieved to see he's grinning. “Still kind of waiting for the other shoe to drop, if I’m being honest.”

Seungcheol smiles warmly at him and raises his glass, “Well then—to exceeding expectations. We both seem to be very good at it.”

Mr Lee uses his free hand to raise his glass too, “I’ll drink to that.”

Seungcheol sips at his orange juice thoughtfully.

“It’s seems wrong to toast with orange juice. You got any _beer_? Wine perhaps?” He ventures hopefully.

Mr Lee lifts his lips off the glass enough to give Seungcheol an incredulous look. It's not a smile, but it's the first sign of normalcy. Seungcheol's willing to take it

“No, you’re not _allowed_ any beer. I’m not enabling your alcoholism.”

Seungcheol guffaws, “I’m not an _alcoholic_.”

“Coulda fooled me.” Mr Lee says archly, taking another sip of orange juice.

Seungcheol snorts, then immediately sobers up. “You’ve known me for less than a week—that’s hardly enough time to judge my habits.”

Mr Lee makes a small disbelieving noise. “Trust me, it’s time enough,” He gestures with his glass, “Finish your orange juice Mr Choi, cause you’re not getting a drop of alcohol out of me.”

Seungcheol obediently picks up his glass, though he might be pouting just a little bit.  

“Oh my god, did you just _pout_?” Mr Lee gasps incredulously.

Seungcheol pouts twice as hard, purely on sullen principle.

“Please stop it, you’re running your reputation. Wealthy Mafia king-pins are not allowed to pout. It’s all kinds of wrong.” Mr Lee chides, but his voice has dropped, and his mouth seems to have formed a perpetual half-amused smile.

Seungcheol forces an easy smile of his own, trying not to betray the odd swell of emotion pushing just underneath the exterior of his calm. “ _Fine_. I’ll just stop at a bar on the way home and fill the tank up.”

Mr Lee sets his glass down on the counter with a sharp click, leaning forward and pointing at Seungcheol accusingly. “You even _think_ about drinking and driving and I’ll kick your ass.”

Seungcheol wishes he didn't find Mr Lee's threats of violence against his person sexy; it's not that he doesn't believe Mr Lee—more that he  _does_  believe him. Seungcheol finds competence to be a desirable quality, and Mr Lee's got competence in spades.

* * *

The bedroom is dark, the glow of the streetlights just barely creeping in through the window curtains. Jeonghan waits quietly by the door until he hears Jisoo’s door close, before springing into action.

He’d spent most of the day lounging around the small house, feigning boredom, when in fact he’d been quietly collecting supplies, assessing his exit route and methodically planning his escape. He’s already removed the safety latch on his bedroom window, using a fork he’d slipped up his sleeve the previous day. He still has a two-story drop to navigate, which is no small feat, but first there’s an ankle monitor to contend with.  

The fastest way to remove the damn thing is to cut clean through the strap—but any damage to the fibre optic cable will immediately trigger the alarm and, _probably_ , Jisoo’s righteous fiery anger.

Jeonghan just _knows_ Jisoo’s got some set-up in his room that allows him to monitor Jeonghan’s movements, so the second that fibre optic cable snaps, Jisoo’s and probably the entirety of Seoul PD will be kicking down his door. Tampering with the GPS signal isn’t an option either—not without a jammer, and that aluminium foil trick? _Yeah_ —that doesn’t work. Jeonghan learned that the hard way. But he _has_ learned a trick or two over the years, though he’s been lucky enough not to need them till now.

Sitting down on the floor, he pulls of his sock and rolls up the hem of his jeans—then grabbing the plastic bag and bottle of lotion he snuck out of the bathroom, he proceeds to moisturise the hell out of his ankle.

Baby smooth skin is, in all fairness, _not_ part of his cunning escape plan. The trick is getting enough lotion under the strap so he can pull the bag over his foot and tuck the handles under, so that there is a layer of plastic between his skin and the strap. Then all he has to do is pull the strap down _over_ his ankle—without breaking it.

It’s in no way comfortable, or easy, and the whole room smells like an old ladies knitting club with the amount of Lavender scented lotion he’s piling on, but it only takes three sharp tugs before he’s easing the strap over the widest part of his foot and off.

He breathes hard in the silence that follows, pulling his socks and shoes on, keeping an ear out for trouble. The skin around his ankle is red and stinging, and smooth as fuck— _wow, this lotion is great_ —but a cursory inspection of the monitor indicates it’s still working as normal.

The window opens easily despite his gentle pressure. He pulls the screen in through the window and looks down. His room is on the second floor, but the wall is made of rough-hewn brick. Normally, it would be terribly easy to climb down— _normally_ , he wouldn’t still be recovering from a bullet wound to the shoulder. But it’s now or never, so he swings his leg over the window ledge and begins his ascent.

As he’s climbing down the wall, his shoulder begins to throb. The ache has him clinging tightly to the wall, moving slower than he really has time for. But he _does_ take his time, making sure he has a firm footing with each move he makes. It’s been a while since he’s had to do anything like this, and thank _God_ he still knows  _how_  to, thank God half the job is the bravery of the thing. The calluses and the muscle memory will come again, with a little time.

He drops down to the gravel silently and sticks close the wall, moving fluidly around the side of the house despite the protesting twinge in his shoulder.

Adrenaline has officially kicked in now, and he feels like he can breathe twice as much air as he needs.

Good thing too—because he’s going to have to trek half-way across the city to get to the safehouse.

* * *

That was a close call.

 _Too_ close for Soonyoung’s tastes.

He hates keeping secrets, hates the feeling of having to look over his shoulder and constantly waiting for the penny to drop, and dining a few tables away from Seokmin at the restaurant was a nail-biting combination of all three. 

He doesn’t know _who_ the man Seokmin was seated with was, but he looked too much the gangster in his black coat and biker boots, to the point of ridiculousness. Their table had been just out of earshot, but the hushed voices, calming gestures and relaxed body language spoke of long familiarity.

A boyfriend, probably.

Dangerously stupid one-night stand or not, the knowledge Seokmin’s out there wining and dining, and possible even tying up other men, _stings_.

_That bastard._

If Soonyoung’s being honest though, he isn't particularly angry with Seokmin. He's mad at himself, if anything, for letting himself get caught in a bad situation out of sheer stupidity and lust. He should never have slept with him in the first place, should have shot him the moment it became convenient.

After he bids Seungkwan and Mingyu goodnight, Soonyoung hails a cab and heads home. He’s resolved himself to have a nice, relaxing, anxiety free night when the sight of Seokmin slumped against his front door assaults him.

There’s something about his posture that gets Soonyoung. His heart clenches and he realizes just how in over his head he is after only a few days. He pulls his keys out of his pocket and approaches wearily.

Seokmin straightens, a smile perfectly in place. “Hey—”

“What are you doing here?” Soonyoung spits.

Seokmin’s eyebrow quirks upward, amused. The _bastard_. “I was in the neighbourhood, thought I’d stop by.”

“No you weren’t. You were having dinner at Tisigseu. That’s nowhere near here.”

Seokmin blinks, surprised. “How did you…..You were _following_ me?”

“ _No_.” Soonyoung huffs. He forces himself to remain still and keep his breathing even, not wanting to telegraph his frustration. “I just happened to see you there. I was having dinner too.”

“Really? Why didn’t you stop by and say hello?”

Soonyoung gives him a dry look. “Uh, Because I was having dinner with _colleagues_. Colleagues who’d expect me to shoot you on sight if they realised who you were. Have you forgotten how you infiltrated our headquarters the other day, knocked me out and tied me up? Cause I haven’t. In fact, I’m the one who’s been assigned with taking you out.”

“Oh, well then,” Seokmin clutches a hand to his chest and bats his ridiculously long eyelashes. “Thank you for sparing my life, I guess. Can I come in?”

“ _No_.” Soonyoung grunts out.

Seokmin affects a pout, sliding his hands into his pockets, “But I came all this way to see you.”

 _Aww,_ Soonyoung thinks to himself—though he manages to school his expression into something far less charmed.

He tries not to sound like a jealous boyfriend when he says, “What happened to your _friend_ from the restaurant? Bored of him already, are you?”

He thinks he pulls off a casually disinterested, mostly neutral tone—at least, he thinks so until Seokmin cocks his head to the side and lets out a quick bark of laughter.

The laughter cuts quickly short, but Seokmin's considering look remains.

" _Friend_ ," He parrots, amusement flashing in his eyes. “Yeah, we’re friends. But that’s _all_ we are. Did you think he was with him or something? Oh god, were you _jealous_?”

Soonyoung blushes despite himself, suddenly glad for the surrounding night. “What? _No_. I don’t….no. I don’t give a shit who you fuck. Why should I care.”

A wide, silly grin breaks out across Seokmin’s face. “Wow, you are so jealous. That’s _adorable_.”

“Fuck you.” Soonyoung says, without much force behind it. He feels a flush on the back of his neck. He ducks his head and fiddles with his watch, aware all the while that Seokmin’s smile has grown positively demonic.

“Are you gonna invite me in or what?” Seokmin croons.

Whatever Soonyoung has been about to say seems irritatingly far away, if he’s honest with himself. He sighs through his nose and tries to gather something in the way of professional annoyance.

“Let’s get one thing straight. We fucked once, by accident, and it’s not going to happen again.”

Seokmin gives him a rueful look—a little too sober, suddenly, and a little too knowing. “We don’t _have_ to fuck. I mean, you could invite me in for tea or coffee, or I _could_ just tie you up again and eat you out really slowly.”

Soonyoung glares at him, because contrary to Seokmin’s insinuations and everyone else’s frankly unbecoming accusations, he does not in fact sleep with just anyone who offers to tie him up.

He doesn’t.

“Or—” Soonyoung says, because he does not see any harm in presenting an alternate hypothesis—"I could shoot you now and fix all my problems at once.”

Seokmin’s eyes crinkle around the corners. He steps in closer, until they’re practically chest to chest. “If you _were_ going to do that, you would have done it already.”

His proximity should  _not_  be sending shivers down Soonyoung’s spine, a heat in his groin. He tells himself very firmly he's being ridiculous, to send Seokmin away and not to fold under any circumstances.

“You need to go.” Soonyoung murmurs. He licks his lips and Seokmin’s eyes dart to the motion.

“Make me.”

The air feels heavy and thick around them. They lock eyes and that’s all it takes. They tumble against one another, kissing hard and frantic, as if the world’s about to end.

Somehow, Soonyoung still has the wherewithal to grope for his keys and open the front door. Seokmin kicks it shut once they’re inside, and they stumble backward into the bedroom.

They kiss and rub against one another for a bit before 69’ing. Seokmin's mouth around his cock is one of the greatest things Soonyoung’s ever experienced and Seokmin coming in his mouth, and he in Seokmin’s, is as close to perfection as gets.

Seokmin doesn’t spend the night this time and Soonyoung doesn’t ask him to. When Seokmin leaves, he’s cheerful and sated and smiling sleepily.

“See you soon— _Soonie_.”

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea man. We _really_ should avoid each other.” Soonyoung protests, for all the good that did him earlier.

“Uh-huh, sure. Whatever you say.” Seokmin says, affectionately, and ruffles Soonyoung’s hair before he slips out.

There's nothing in his eyes that says he won't be  _back_.

* * *

When Jeonghan arrives at the safehouse, he’s expecting the worst.

Five days of radio silence is a plenty of time for even the best contingency plans to go pear shaped; all you need are a few twitchy trigger fingers and one bad call for your whole crew to wind up dead.

It doesn’t help that there hasn’t been a single mention of the failed heist on the news lately, and although Jisoo had been annoyingly tight lipped about a lot of things, he had kept Jeonghan up to date each time an unidentified body surfaced, just in case it turned out to be one of his crew.

There had been little comfort in that, especially knowing that Choi Seungcheol is just the kind of man who could make anyone disappear without a trace. So, _yeah_ , it's hard not to consider the worst case scenario.

It requires every ounce of self-control not to simply run up the stairs and kick the door in. He could be walking right into an ambush here, or the guys could've written him off as dead already and split up.

He takes a while to scope out the entry points of the building, taking in the unfinished construction work on the north side and the high windows, while his thoughts spin in a horrifying circle of what-ifs. He winds his way up one of the fire escapes, making not a sound as he moves slowly and carefully along the wrought-iron steps. He stops when he finds a good vantage point, able to see and hear within.

There’s a window to his left, and the room beyond is completely dark. He can’t see any movement either, so crouches down and eases the window frame up, doing his best to keep the noise to a minimum as he climbs in.

“Stop.”

The cold tip of a metal barrel presses against Jeonghan’s temple, but rather than fear, a sense of giddy relief rushes through him. He recognises that voice.

“Wonu? Jesus, thank _God_!”

A second later, Jeonghan is blinded in the beam of a torch as Wonwoo shines it in his face, then a lamp goes on and Jeonghan blinks in the rapidly changing light. Wonwoo's standing a few feet away, bare-chested and wearing nothing but his jeans, his Glock lowered at his side. He looks like he just woke up.

“Fashionably late, as always I see,” Wonwoo scowls at him tiredly, and Jeonghan doesn't hesitate to close the space between them, wrapping his arms around Wonwoo. They're not typically big huggers, his crew, and Wonwoo stiffens at the unfamiliar gesture, but he adjusts quickly, one arm coming up to circle Jeonghan’s back.

“I’m glad to see you too asshole. Seokmin was doubting you were even alive, but I knew you’d show. Hey, what's wrong? You look—”

Wonwoo pulls back and seems to register the stiff way he’s moving his shoulder, the relief Jeonghan doesn't bother to hide. “You look like hell. Were—were you _shot_?”

Jeonghan can't help the sputter of laughter that spills out, and he hugs Wonwoo tighter, which Wonwoo allows, most likely because he thinks Jeonghan has had some sort of head trauma and isn't quite in his right mind. Jeonghan is fine with that. Wonwoo is okay, he’s alive, and by the sounds of it Seokmin’s kicking around somewhere too.

“Dude. What happened?” Wonwoo says, manhandling Jeonghan towards the couch. Guns and flashlights get discarded on the coffee table, and Wonwoo locks the door and wedges a chair in front of it when Jeonghan gives it a suspicious glance. “We're safe here. What's going on? Where have you _been_?”

Jeonghan closes his eyes and lets out a shaky laugh. “Here and there.” He shrugs, then immediately regrets it when his shoulder _throbs_. “It’s a long story.”

His amusement fades a little, as more sombre thoughts nudge towards the surface of his mind. “Where are the others?”

Wonwoo takes a seat on the edge of the coffee table, facing him, “It’s just me and Seokmin so far. He stepped out for a smoke, but that was….” He glances at the clock on the wall, “A few hours ago now. I must have fell asleep.”

“But Seokmin doesn’t smoke.” Jeonghan says, low and a little confused.

“He doesn’t?” Wonwoo runs his fingers through his hair distractedly, shaking his head. “Shit. That lying bastard.”

Jeonghan frowns as he properly studies him for the first time. His eyes take in the fresh bandages around his arm, and the bruises and cuts that are just starting to heal on his face.

_Why is he injured?_

_He wasn’t even in the bank during the shoot up._

“Where’s Jihoon and Minghao?”

“I have no idea where Minghao is, he hasn’t attempted to contact either of us since the heist. And Jihoon is…..” Wonwoo trails off, a distinct nervous shake edging into his voice. It sets unwelcome fear twisting low in Jeonghan's gut.

“What?” Jeonghan gasps. For one frozen, heart-stopping second, he assumes the worst. His worldview seems to pitch and tilt as if they're back in a very different moment. “No…he can’t be.” He croaks.

“No, no—he’s not dead,” Wonwoo waves him off quickly, and Jeonghan breathes a little easier. “He’s just, kind of….”

“Just what?” Jeonghan barks in wild disbelief. 

Wonwoo sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t know how to tell you this but….Jihoon’s working for Choi Seungcheol now.”

Jeonghan’s heart thumps in his chest, the adrenaline still kicking around in his system from earlier surfacing anew. He has entered a fugue state of numbness. There are words coming out of Wonwoo's mouth, presumably, but he has no idea what they are. Nevertheless, he has enough wits left in his head to say:

“Come again?”

“Maybe I should start from the beginning.” Wonwoo says almost reluctantly. He’s wearing a closed-off expression with something that looks, uncomfortably, like guilt in his eyes. 

“I think you should.”

Wonwoo nods and takes a deep breath. “Okay. So, the night before the heist. I went to this bar and…”

* * *

Jeonghan scratches at the side of his jaw, contemplating the story Wonwoo’s just shared with him.

Wonwoo, more honest than tactful, told him everything, which means Jeonghan has cycled through several facial expressions, ranging from worried to disbelieving and fucking livid before settling for an uncomfortable mixture of all three.

“And you trust this ‘ _Mingyu’_ guy? You trust what he’s saying?”

Wonwoo nods, silent. He looks up at Jeonghan with tired eyes. “I understand why you wouldn’t, but Mingyu had plenty of opportunities to kill me, or hand me over and didn’t. He pretty much put his own neck on the line to keep my secret, and he even gave me this—”

Wonwoo pauses to draw a clay poker chip from his pocket, spins it between his fingers. “He said if I ever had a run in with Choi’s men, I should show it and it would keep me safe. Honestly, he seems about as terrified of Choi Seungcheol as anyone else, even though he’s like an older brother to him or something.”

Jeonghan tips his head back against the couch, watches the perpetually slow ceiling fan overhead make its feeble attempt at stirring the air.

He hates this; hates the chaos, the disorder, hates having to scramble and improvise, even if he is good at it. None of this is the way things were supposed to happen. It doesn’t even make sense.

He _knows_ Jihoon would never betray them—that the only reason he would _ever_ switch allegiances is if the people he cared about were in danger. As far as Jeonghan’s aware, it’s a small list of people, but it _always_ included Jeonghan and the rest of the crew. Always.

“Jihoon would never betray us.” He continues, thinking out loud. “He wouldn’t do that. That’s not _him_.”

Wonwoo's face is pinched and grey, conflicting emotions written in the lines of his mouth. “That’s what Seokmin said too, and I want to believe it, I do. It just seems like _too_ much of a coincidence, how everything’s worked out so well for Jihoon in this mess. Everything I’ve ever known about Choi Seungcheol suggests he’s not a very forgiving man, yet he allowed Jihoon to walk away, _and_ with his share of the heist? Not to mention, Jihoon hasn’t tried to contact us once since. I mean—something’s not right about this whichever way you slice it.”

“I know,” Jeonghan sighs, letting his head hit the back of the couch.

He consciously relaxes, closes his eyes and examines his thoughts. The first of which is,  _what the bloody fuck is Jihoon up to?_

Surely he wouldn’t have accepted Choi Seungcheol’s offer freely. Maybe he didn’t have a choice, maybe it was _‘work for me or else’_ , or _maybe_ he just saw an opportunity to jump off sinking ship and took it. Somehow Jeonghan doesn’t think it’s that simple.

That leaves one option, but Jeonghan doesn’t look at it closely. Jihoon had repeatedly expressed his disapproval to Jeonghan’s heist plan, if he _had_ set them up—he wouldn’t have put so much effort into getting them to cancel it.

There must be something else going on. Something he’s overlooking.

“This source of Seokmin’s,” Jeonghan waves a hand lazily in Wonwoo’s direction. “—who is it?”

Wonwoo shrugs modestly, “He wouldn’t say. Not that I blame him to be honest, I wasn’t exactly dying to explain myself earlier.”

Jeonghan scratches his cheek thoughtfully. 

It’s useless trying to piece together what’s happening with such limited info.

He’s flying even blinder than he was with Jisoo’s shitty intel, and Jisoo, at least, had resources.

 _And_ a plan. Shitty as it was, it was _still_ a plan.

Plans are good—and Jeonghan’s never met a plan that’s not open to improvisation.

“Right. New plan.” He says, clapping his hands together. “You and Seokmin lay low here, I need to go back under house arrest and figure out what’s going on.”

“Woah, woah. W-what?” Wonwoo splutters, _“House arrest?”_

Jeonghan grins sheepishly, “Oh yeah, I forgot to say—I’ve been recruited by a government task force assigned to investigate Choi Seungcheol.”

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow, and then seems to be waiting for some sort of punchline.

So, ok, maybe Jeonghan came out with that a little _too_ casually.

Wonwoo probably thinks he’s joking.

“I’m not joking Wonu. I really _have_ been recruited by the cops.” Jeonghan says earnestly. Then he tips his head side to side, revising his words, “Well, not so much recruited as coerced _. At gun point_.”

Wonwoo stares at him aghast, eyes wide and shocked.

“Hold on a fucking second. You’re working for the cops now? The _Cops_? How did—”He stops himself and makes an abortive motion, like he's trying to yank his hair out with his hands. 

Jeonghan shrugs, helpless to explain the exact situation. “Basically I got caught and threatened with a bad time behind bars unless I agreed to help them. They fitted me with an ankle monitor and were keeping me under house arrest as they laid plans for this big take down of Choi’s company. Thing is, Choi fancies himself a bit of a high roller now: only associates with the upper echelon, keeps his hands clean. Clever man, hard to take down. I had serious doubts they could pull it off and keep me alive at the same time, so I broke out. Now—I have to break back _in_ before the cop assigned to babysit me, realises I’m missing.”

"Uh," Wonwoo says, because that's obviously a lot of information to take in in 10 seconds.

Jeonghan closes his eyes and rubs his temples “I know, I know—it’s crazy. But if I’ve got any hope of figuring out what’s going on, it’s by being close to the action.”

Wonwoo blinks at him, as if what Jeonghan just said was an utterly foreign concept to him.

“Why though? Shouldn’t we be as far away from the action as possible? Why don’t we just leave town? Leave the country even, at least till things settle down a bit. If the cops want a piece of Choi Seungcheol, shouldn’t we just leave them to it? Why get involved at all?” He says in his most exasperated tone.

Jeonghan lets out a low breath of air, a lick of anger coiling in his belly as he turns to face Wonwoo fully. His lips twist. “Cause I need to know what Jihoon’s doing with him. I need to know he’s okay.”

Wonwoo looks genuinely surprised, his forehead furrowing in a frown. “Why?”

Jeonghan shakes his head, because clearly Wonwoo is not getting this.

“Look—you won’t understand, I know things between me and Hoonie haven’t been great lately, but I promised him once I’d never leave him behind. If he’s betrayed us, I wanna know why. And if he hasn’t, I need to make sure he’s happy doing whatever it is he’s doing for Choi Seungcheol. Maybe he’s there by choice, but maybe he _had_ no choice but to cooperate with him, and if that’s the case I need to get him out. I owe him that much.”

Wonwoo looks riled enough to protest, but apparently decides it's not worth fighting a losing battle. He gives a heavy sigh instead of renewing his arguments, eyes slipping closed for just a moment as he shakes his head unhappily.

“This is the dumbest plan you have ever had. And you’ve had some real corkers before Hannie.” He says, resignation heavy in his voice.

“Choi Seungcheol’s human—just like the rest of us. How bad can he be?” Jeonghan offers, because that's genuinely the last argument he has.

Wonwoo stares at him intently for a long moment. “Bad. _Very, very_ bad.” He finally says, all seriousness. “I’ve met him. He wasn’t armed, he didn’t threaten me, and at no point was he outwardly hostile—but I was terrified to the core. It was like—like meeting a reincarnation of death in expensive tailoring.”

Jeonghan drums his fingers on his thigh, thinking. “I’ve seen a few pictures of him. Is he as hot in real life?”

Wonwoo looks up at him from underneath his eyebrows and grins, baring his teeth. “He’s _smoking_ hot. For one crazy moment, I actually contemplated a threesome if it was on the cards— He admits, then has the good grace to look guilty, “—but that’s besides the point. This is a terrible plan Hannie. I want to be on the record for saying that.”

Jeonghan manages to swallow before he starts to laugh. “Noted. I’m still going back.” He says, levering himself up onto his feet.

Wonwoo trails him to the door, citing again all the reasons this is a bad idea, but Jeonghan’s already made up his mind. He looks back over his shoulder, his gaze clear and steady.

“Be up front with Seokmin about what you told me. And try and find out who his source is; it might give us something to work with.”

“This is a dumb plan!” Wonwoo calls after him.

“Just get it done Wonu!” Jeonghan says, letting the door slam shut behind him. He may be under house arrest, but he’s still in charge of this crew.

* * *

Seungcheol stops at the front door, pausing with a suit jacket half-folded in his hands.

He hates this part of the date, not that this constitutes a date or anything—but they seem to be jumping through the ‘end of date’ hoops anyway, doing the whole weird 'standing around awkwardly' after bit, like they don’t know what to say to each other or how to make this moment happen again. And _soon_.

“This—this has been nice.” Seungcheol ventures, offering a genuine smile. “Thanks for inviting me.”

Mr Lee shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, “No problem.”

They hold each other’s eyes for a beat until Seungcheol coughs.

“I hope we can do this again sometime. Maybe I can take you out to dinner somewhere?”

Mr Lee blinks, just a twitch of surprise, before his eyes soften. “Sure. Why not”

Seungcheol grins triumphantly, unable to douse the feeling of lightness in his chest; it’s something that’s been absent for far too long.

He steps out into the corridor and turns to face Mr Lee once more, “I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess. Goodnight— _my little cabbage_.”

Mr Lee narrows his eyes at the endearment, which Seungcheol pointedly ignores because his furious little expression is compelling and adorable. He moves to leave, but Mr Lee stops him with hand curled gently around his arm.

“It’s Jihoon.”

Seungcheol looks at him, then to the hand folded over his forearm and back again, “Huh?”

“My _name_ —it’s Jihoon.” Mr Lee explains. He sighs, relaxing, although he waits a moment before removing his hand. “You can call me that now, if you like. I guess…you’ve earned that much.”

It takes a second to process, then Seungcheol feels himself melt a little.

Mr Lee’s eyes are hooded, easy, and there's a tiny smile tucking up the corners of his mouth just enough for his dimples to show. It makes Seungcheol breath catch. He never gets tired of knowing that someone as deadpan as Mr Lee has dimples.

No. Not Mr Lee anymore.

“Jihoon.” Seungcheol repeats, turning that magic word over and over in his head. 

 _Jihoon_. Nothing has ever sounded so pretty.

“That’s a lovely name—It suits you,” Seungcheol says, letting a casual tone belie the churning in his gut, the crazy rhythm of his heart. He shakes out his jacket and shrugs it on, slipping his hands into his pockets as he leans against the doorframe. “I’m still going to call you my little cabbage though.”

Jihoon’s face pulls into a scowl, fierce and sudden. “ _Seriously_?”

Seungcheol leans in closer—close enough to catch the glint that might just be homicidal intent in Jihoon's eyes—and sets a hand on high on the doorframe. “You’re adorable when you’re angry—I wasn’t lying when I said that. Incidentally, I adore your mouth. You’ve got such pretty lips, especially when you pout. You can make sulking look like something you earned a degree in.”

Jihoon doesn’t offer a reply except to turn a lovely shade of pink from head to toe. Then, he simply steps back into the apartment and slams the door shut in Seungcheol’s face.

Seungcheol laughs, dark and delighted, barely resisting the urge to collapse against the door with a pleased sigh.

Palming his car keys out of his jacket pocket, he practically skips down the steps to the exit. His good cheer dies almost immediately after he steps out onto the pavement. The harsh overhead light shows him nothing but the rigid skeleton of his car set up on blocks, its engine, tires, all its best bits cannibalized by thieves.

He's in between debating whether he should call his driver, the insurance company or attempt to flag down a cab, when a sing-song voice calls out from high above his head.

_“Told you so.”_

He turns and glances up, only to find Jihoon leaning out of his street facing window, giving him a smile that is equal parts cheerful and sadistic.

Seungcheol can practically _feel_ his smug triumph radiating from all the way up there.

Despite it all, he grins cheerfully up at Jihoon, “Ah, well—in my defence, they managed to do all this without triggering the alarm. That’s pretty skilful of them when you think about it.”

Jihoon surprises him by looking something other than annoyed, some sort of brief, wry amusement that still manages to give the impression it wants to smack him. “I’ll call you a tow. And a taxi I guess.”

Seungcheol nods graciously, “That would be most generous of you.”

Jihoon watches him with an indecipherable half smile for a long, considering minute and finally shakes his head. “You can come back upstairs and wait till it shows.”

Seungcheol shoves his hands into his jacket pockets so hard he’s surprised he doesn’t hear the fabric rip. “Ah, thanks, but I wouldn’t want to infringe on your hospitality any further.”

Jihoon just shoots him the 'you're an idiot,' look, and steps away from the window. A minute later, he returns with a phone pressed against his ear, “Get your ass up here before the pigeons shit all over you.”

Seungcheol grins. He doesn’t have to be told twice.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, climbing back up the wall to the open bedroom window is _twice_ as hard as climbing down was.

Had Jeonghan known he’d be returning, he’d have left something behind to ease his ascent—tied some fucking bedsheets together or something.

As it is, he hasn’t, so he relies on his own brute strength and sheer force of will to make it back through the bedroom window.

He doesn’t have to look at his shoulder to know he’s popped his stiches, he can feel the burn of torn flesh and warm tackiness of blood against his skin. He’ll have to wait till tomorrow to inspect the damage.

Toeing off his boots, he reaches under the bed for the discarded ankle monitor in order to re-attach it—then freezes when he hears the sound of footsteps moving quickly outside.

Jisoo’s awake. _Shit_.

When the door swings open, Jeonghan’s already tossed the monitor under the pillow and sprawled out over the bed with a book, concentrating on keeping his face expressionless. As Jisoo steps into the room, he raises his head from the book slowly, allowing a smile to creep onto his face.

“Hello Sarge. Come to tuck me in?”

Jisoo very obviously tries not to smile at this, and fails. “ _No_. I thought I heard the window shut.” He says, concerned expression barely visible in the dark room.

Jeonghan glances briefly at the window, “Yes, it was open. I was attempting to escape. But alas, you foiled my plan at the last second.”

“Indeed,” Jisoo drawls, some of the suspicion fading from his eyes, “Look, I’m making some camomile tea to help me sleep. Would you like some?”

The change in topic is abrupt, and Jeonghan blinks several times before his brain catches up and processes the question. He gives his most distracting smile, genuine enough at the moment, and says, “That sounds positively lovely Jisoo darling.”

“Don’t call me that.” Jisoo informs him, very stern, but his mouth is twitching at the corners as he starts to retreat from the room. He stops abruptly mid-turn, catching sight of something on the floor. His expression goes sharp and interested.

Jeonghan only has a second to realise it’s the bottle of lotion he pilfered earlier, before Jisoo’s striding across the room and picking it up. “Is this my lotion?”

“Uh—yes.” Jeonghan says with a sheepish smile, sitting up and setting his book on the nightstand. “Yes, it is.”

Jisoo scrutinises the bottle for a second longer, dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully, before asking, “What were you doing with my lotion?”

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. “ _Moisturising_. What else?” he says, grinning.

He takes in the way Jisoo’s expression sharpens, that banked suspicion coming to the fore before sighing and spreading his hands, “Alright. If you must know, I was using it to jerk off.”

Jisoo flails, dropping the bottle quickly to the ground like it’s contagious. “And you needed to use _my_ lotion for that?”

“Well, yeah. Don’t have any of my own now, do I?” Jeonghan says with a wink. Bending down to pick up the discarded bottle, he takes a sniff and smiles at Jisoo. “I quite like the scent actually; Lavender reminds me of my grandma.”

Jisoo levels him a horrified look, “You were thinking of your grandmother while you jacking off? That’s not cool Jeonghan. That’s not cool at all.”

Jeonghan tries for a 'what the fuck, no,' head jerk, and mostly messes it up. There are twinges in his shoulder, there are painful twinges everywhere.

“Oh god—no! I didn’t mean it like that!”

Jisoo doesn’t appear to be buying that either.

He shoots Jeonghan a look of borderline disdain, then his eyes stray to the crumpled plastic bag Jeonghan has used earlier, laying forlorn in the middle of the floor.

“Do I even want to _know_ what’s in that bag?”   

“Uhhh—”

Jeonghan doesn't have an immediate response to that, which is an amazingly bad time to get verbal constipation. His continued silence is probably putting all manner of unpleasant thoughts in Jisoo’s head.

“Gross.” Jisoo says, gives him what Jeonghan supposes is meant to be a very disappointed look. That look—there's no verbal response to that look. You get that look and you've already failed in some way. Jeonghan can feel it hovering above him.

“I’m leaving the room now. Make sure you dispose of that bag appropriately, and next time—use a tissue like everyone else, pervert.” Jisoo says, striding away.

Jeonghan sighs heavily as the door clicks shut behind him.

The deception was surprisingly easy as deceptions go, except how Jisoo now thinks he’s some obscene pervert who jerks off to thoughts of elderly women and lavender.

Great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Long chapter is long. But it's hard to write anything shorter with so man POV to cover. Still feel like this plot is dragging at a snails pace, but I've resigned myself that this story will be over 200k in word length. Sigh.  
> 2) Jihoon loves cereal in real life too. Bless him.  
> 3) I'm contemplating about including some flashback scenes in the next chapter. I know ppl hate flashback in stories, but I think it would explain Cheol and Mingyu's relationship better.  
> 4) Anyway, hope you enjoyed this update! Feedback, as always, is very motivating and appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) So loosely based on the Call Call Call MV I don't think it's worth mentioning tbh. Although I will keep them in their respective gangs. Except for the 80's Akira crew or whatever they call it. I can't figure out a way of fitting them into the plot as a gang, so they'll just have to be civilians that get dragged into the chaos.  
> 2) I've never written smut for another ship that wasn't Jicheol.....


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